The Adventures of Emily Chrane
by DovieLR
Summary: Sherlockian purists BEWARE!!! Imagine if Sherlock Holmes had a childhood friend who taught him everything he knows. Now imagine that friend was a woman. In these stories, Holmes' friend, Emily Chrane, shows her stuff, and even teaches Dr. Watson a thing o
1. The Adventure of the Orphans’ Fingers

  
  


**The Adventure of the Orphans' Fingers**

  
  
  
Mr Sherlock Holmes, throughout his life, maintained his aversion to women, or so he would have us believe. "The fairer sex," he once remarked, "are ridiculous creatures, all of emotion, and of no logic." One woman, however, besides the infamous Irene Adler Norton, who had so troubled the King of Bohemia, disproved his rule. I shall not relate the exact date I met this extraordinary woman, for Holmes made me promise not to make public these few accounts until all involved were deceased, including himself, who died peacefully some months ago at his bee-keeping estate in the South Downs of Sussex. His reason for this request I shall explain partially in this and other accounts.  
  
One spring, my wife took a vacation to France to visit a friend of her family. I took full advantage of this opportunity to stay with Holmes in my old rooms at 221B Baker Street. I entered the sitting-room on this fateful day, following my morning shave, to find Holmes returning his cocaine bottle to its place on the mantel, and placing his syringe in its morocco case, which he locked in his desk drawer. As he rolled down his sleeve, I shot him a disapproving glare.  
  
"It is not as often as before, Watson" said he, eyes cast downward, apparently avoiding mine. "You have seen to that. I now only partake when cases are sparse: not a client in the last fortnight!"  
  
"I still do not condone it!" I clamored.  
  
"I know, my good fellow," said he with a stretch, "but I lack intellectual stimulation. Criminal cases are a vast ocean, and we, my dear Watson, are in dry dock!"  
  
"The tide shall soon come in, old chap," said I, trying to soothe his broken spirit. When Holmes was in such a state as this -- exhausted by the lack of cases, ironically: work did not tire him, yet the absence of employment had that effect -- only something of great import could rouse him. It became quite a vicious cycle. Holmes lit his oily, black clay pipe and, with an exasperated sigh, retreated into the depths of his armchair. My friend closed his eyes, drew up his knees, and began to smoke. I helped myself to a cigar and joined him, settling in my usual place. I too was depressed by the lack of cases. I had so hoped to join Holmes in some adventurous chase. When Mrs. Hudson entered, neither of us stirred.  
  
"There is a lady to see you, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"Did she present her card?" he inquired.  
  
"No," the housekeeper replied tersely.  
  
"Her name?" Sherlock Holmes queried.  
  
"She did not say."  
  
"Really, Mrs. Hudson, you must learn to be more pressing in your interviews. Send her in."  
  
"Hmph," the housekeeper replied as she spun on her heel and left the room.  
  
I stood, but there was no reaction from Holmes when the woman entered. I had expected him to offer some sort of salutation. To my surprise, it was she who spoke first.  
  
"It is a three-pipe problem, Sherlock?"  
  
This question cause a broad smile to spread across my friend's face like a fire burning out of control. His head, which had been lying on his breast, jerked up and he uttered one word.  
  
"Emily," he whispered, and with what seemed one bound, was at the door. "Halloa! Quite the contrary, my dear sister!"  
  
Holmes' exclamation gave me quite a shock. I had accepted his reticence in all personal matters as one of his many eccentricities. Learning of the existence of Mycroft Holmes was disturbing enough. I had no indication that Holmes had a female sibling. She was the exact feminine counterpart of Holmes in every way: she was almost as tall and as thin as he with the same sharp, piercing grey eyes and the same high-bridged, aquiline nose, though hers was more feminine than his.  
  
"This, I perceive," said she regarding me, "is your friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Tell me, Doctor, is it your usual custom to continue to practice medicine when you visit Sherlock?" I was astounded, although I should have been accustomed to "being deduced" by that time. Holmes had an annoying habit of answering my thoughts rather than my words and, as I was soon to learn, so did this Emily. I was about to ask her how she knew.  
  
"It is all quite simple, doctor," said she. "You were not consulting with Sherlock, so you are evidently an acquaintance. The dark stains on your hands were caused by the nitrate of silver, which narrows your occupation to that of an apothecary, a scientist, or a doctor. Your medical bag is displayed on the desk in the corner; therefore you are a doctor. The callus on your right middle finger and the worn patches on your coatsleeves show that you do quite a bit of writing, more than is required to prescribe medication. You are a writer, a doctor, and a friend of Sherlock: who but Dr. Watson? I observed your suitcase just inside the door in the next room which indicates an extended stay, and your medical bag confirms that you are continuing to practice during your visit, unless of course Sherlock were ill. Except for his occasional use of the seven percent solution, however, he is in the best of health." Holmes cast his eyes down shamefully.  
  
"How do you know the suitcase is mine?" I asked.  
  
"The monogram -- JHW: John Hamish Watson, I believe?"  
  
"Holmes," said I, "I didn't know you had a sister."  
  
"I haven't," he replied. "Emily is no relation to me save in the art of noticing those little details that others do not. Emily, this, as you could not help concluding, is my companion and scribe, Dr. Watson. Watson, this is Miss Emily Chrane, my 'sister in Deduction,' and my dearest childhood friend."  
  
"Oh, I see," said I, "you taught her all you know regarding Deduction." Both laughed heartily as a result of my remark. "I do not see anything comical in that," I retorted.  
  
"Watson, you merely do not have all the facts. It was she who taught me."  
  
"I thought you said your faculty for Deduction was inherited," I protested. "Otherwise, your brother would not also posses it."  
  
"Observation is in our blood," he continued. "Deduction is not. Emily instructed us as to how to utilize our abilities."  
  
"Although I am indebted to Sherlock and Mycroft for the majority of my education, theirs in the art of Deduction they owe to me. Mycroft was a better pupil, but lacked the energy to become a great detective, which you, my dear Sherlock have already become. I hear that you have apprehended John Clay and returned the Blue Carbuncle to the Countess of Morcar."  
  
Holmes bowed. "My dear Emily, it is most fortunate that you came to visit now. Watson came while his wife was away to assist me in my work. Alas, there is no work in which he can assist. Your presence, along with his, may just see me safely through this bout of boredom."  
  
"You have no cases?" she marveled.  
  
"None," he replied, deflatedly, sinking once again into his chair.  
  
"Then I may just have something that will interest you. My superiors suggested that I take a mandatory 'holiday.' It was ill-timed, for I was about to close my nets around a piece of heavy game I have been tracking for some time."  
  
"Marvelous, my dear!" said Holmes, sitting up and rubbing his hands together in unconcealed glee. "What are the particulars?"  
  
"Two of the residents of the Edinburgh Orphanage," said she, "a Roger Smith and a Christopher McGlynn, were reported missing from the establishment. Both were subsequently found dead of strangulation -- without their fingers. The police have gotten no further than retrieving the bodies and being perplexed. Now then, Sherlock: the game is afoot. Do you want to play?"  
  
"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" he chimed. "Watson, are you interested?"  
  
"By all means!" said I, emphatically.  
  
"We have but half an hour to catch the next express to Scotland," said Miss Chrane. "I suggest we leave immediately. Doctor, you may wish to bring that notebook of yours to write another of your illustrious accounts."  
  
"And perhaps your army revolver," Holmes added.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
On the train to Scotland, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Emily Chrane chatted away about their lives since their last meeting. In fact, I had never seen Holmes in quite such a garrulous disposition. Whoever this lady was, she had a decidedly pleasant effect on my friend, and I only hoped that I would see Holmes in this state more often. During the journey, I learned a great deal about this singular, exceptional woman. Holmes and his brother had tutored her as a girl, expanding her limited grammar school education. She had enrolled at Oxford and graduated first in her class, earning a degree in criminology. She had, in addition, earned several degrees, in chemistry, forensic medicine, physics and many mathematical branches, in post-graduate studies at Edinburgh University. She was, at the time we met, employed as an investigator with the Edinburgh Coroner's Office.  
  
"I've studied your monograph on cigars and cigar ash, Sherlock," she proclaimed. "I must say, it came in quite handy recently."  
  
"I am glad you found it useful, my dear," Holmes replied. "I read yours on new applications for dogs in police work. Most enlightening."  
  
"Wait a moment," said I, "I read that one also. The author was listed as 'E. George Chrane.' Is that you?"  
  
"Yes, Doctor. I use that pseudonym because otherwise I could not make any of my work available to my colleagues. Monographs authored by women in the field of Deduction are simply not published."  
  
"What a shame," said I sympathetically. "The world is missing out, I'm sure. Holmes, some of your posts are from that pseudonym, and they looked to be written in Chinese."  
  
"It is Japanese, Watson. The Japanese _hiragana_ hieroglyphs are more rounded than the Chinese _kanji_, which are squared and more intricate."  
  
"Thank you for that fascinating distinction, Holmes, but I am more interested in why."  
  
"It is our own special code, Watson. You may have also noticed that those posts were addressed to 'William S. Holmes,' yet only my mother ever called me William, and that was only when she was displeased with me. Emily and I set this up early in our careers so that, if either of us were in a desperate situation, he or she could ask for help without putting the other in unnecessary danger. To guard against busybodies," said he, smiling, "our normal correspondence is written in Japanese. If I ever receive a letter from 'Miss Emily Chrane' to 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes' in plain English, I would know instantly that Emily needed my help, and I would go to her. Or if the situation were reversed, she would aid me. So far in our work, this system has not been called into use by necessity. Should the need arise, like an eager actor, it is waiting in the wings." This is one reason why Holmes asked that I not publish these accounts, so as not to expose this and other secrets, while they were living.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Upon arriving in Edinburgh, Miss Chrane decided that she would take us to the morgue to view the two victims. "This is Roger Smith," she said as she pulled back the sheet on the boy's right hand only. "What do you make of that, Doctor?"  
  
I examined the hand closely. "The digits were chopped off in one stoke with an extremely sharp instrument."  
  
"How can you tell that, Watson?" Holmes asked.  
  
"The cut is a straight, blunt cut. The forefinger and little finger are separated exactly where the knuckle joins the finger. It is almost surgically precise. The weapon has nicked the joint of the two middle fingers because they protrude a little further forward. So, therefore, it was done in one stroke."  
  
"Very good, Doctor. All the other fingers were severed in much the same way," Miss Chrane answered. "Your reports of his abilities were not exaggerated, Sherlock." At his point, I began to feel a little unwell. Even though I had often dealt with post-mortem adults, mutilated children were new to me. Perhaps it was the smell of the morgue, or the fact that we had departed from Baker Street in such haste that I had not breakfasted. "The doctor is turning a little green. There is nothing more of importance to be seen here, so perhaps we should leave now?"  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
"What do you make of it all, Sherlock?"  
  
"Not as much as you do, apparently."  
  
"I do have the advantage of familiarity with the case."  
  
"What sort of extremely sharp instrument do you suppose? An axe or hatchet?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"Too unwieldy for such delicate work," said Miss Chrane, "and probably not sharp enough. I do not, at present, have enough data yet to confirm or disprove it, but I suspect that it was a cleaver."  
  
"The murderer seems quite serious about harvesting only the fingers," said I. "I wonder why."  
  
"Insane murderers often remove a trophy of some sort," asserted Holmes.  
  
"Would not only one finger have sufficed for such a trophy?" Miss Chrane asked. "Why eight per victim? The mutilation was not for a trophy, but something more sinister. Halloa, what's this?" Miss Chrane asked, looking out the window of our foul-wheeler at a crowd in the park. It was abuzz with police activity. "Stop here, please, driver!" As we drew near the crowd assembled under a tall oak on the eastern edge of the park, a lanky gentleman stepped from the group and addressed Miss Chrane.  
  
"You are supposed to be on holiday!" said he in a heavy Highland brogue.  
  
"I am, Inspector MacDougall," Miss Chrane answered with feigned innocence. "I went to London to visit my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and when I told him of this case, I simply could not keep him away. You've found another body? Same conditions as the others, I surmise?" The inspector nodded to both questions, and Miss Chrane continued. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Holmes would like to see the third child, a girl I presume, for you seem more upset on this occasion. Dr. Watson may be of some assistance in the examination," she continued, as MacDougall led us to the midst of the crowd.  
  
Lying directly under the oak was a bloated little body. She might have been a lovely girl, had her face not been twisted in such a grimace of pain, and had her hands not been digitless. My previous nausea resurged in full force, and the sight caused me to swoon. Holmes caught me and pulled me from the crowd. As is characteristic of crowds, the entire group flocked around Holmes and myself. I noticed Miss Chrane bending over the child's body. In my state of delirium, it appeared as if she were pulling a ball of light out of the dead girl. I was swimming in a sea of blurs when I was at last brought back to reality by Holmes' loosening my collar. Finally, he shouted for everyone to clear away and let me breathe, and my surroundings came back into focus.  
  
"Perhaps we had best take Dr. Watson out of the sun." The voice was Miss Chrane's. "My home is but a few streets away." She and Holmes helped me to the street where we boarded our cab.  
  
"Montague Hall, please, cabbie!" Miss Chrane called as we boarded. "Are you feeling better, Doctor?" she asked me. When I didn't answer immediately, she spoke to Holmes. "Sherlock, perhaps you should give him a sip of your brandy." Holmes looked surprised momentarily, then smiled and produced his flask. I drank from it briefly.  
  
"I am much better, thank you," said I. "I should have eaten something this morning."  
  
"Watson is not so immune to the need of food as you and I, Emily," said Holmes.  
  
"This may sound odd to you, Doctor, but I'm rather glad you felt faint," she commented.  
  
"You are absolutely correct," said I. "It sounds profoundly odd!"  
  
"I did not mean it to be cruel. You became the center of attention, and that allowed me the opportunity, unobserved, to retrieve this." She pulled from her purse a locket on a long, golden chain.  
  
"But you were observed!" I exclaimed.  
  
"By whom?" she cried, distressed.  
  
"By me," I stated, and with a slight chuckle, "but I thought I was delirious."  
  
"Oh, you had me worried," she sighed. "I thought you meant by someone who could make trouble for me with my superiors."  
  
"So, our little diversion worked," Holmes added.  
  
I was quite put out. "Holmes, you were in on this as well?" I pouted.  
"Watson, with one glance, I knew that Emily intended to search the body, with or without 'official' police permission. Your fainting spell afforded us the perfect distraction. You know my taste for all that is theatrical. Emily shares that trait. Knowing that the crowd would be engrossed in the drama, I played it up. I even thought for half a heartbeat that you were acting, as well. Medical men are not normally given to fits of fainting. Your timing was exquisite." I frowned, and his expression softened. "My dear fellow, even though my reaction may have been staged, you must know that my concern was genuine." I was somewhat placated by this sincere though rare show of affection from my puzzling friend.  
  
"Well, if nothing else," Miss Chrane shrugged, "at least you weren't delirious . . . not completely." She handed the locket to Holmes and myself for inspection.  
  
It was a beautiful piece of jewelry. It had a crest on the front that was a rampant lion with a sapphire for an eye, entwined in twists of ivy. "It looks to be new," said I.  
  
"Not new, Watson," Holmes added, "but not exceptionally old either, and well maintained. Since it is not a costly piece of jewelry, this would suggest that the owner attached a great sentimental value to it. Owned by a nervous woman, for she has rubbed away most of the design on the back." He showed me the rear of the piece of jewelry, then returned to the face as he said, "However, the crest on the front looks untouched and quite new. The chain, as you can see, has been recently repaired. These three links," said he, pointing them out to me, "are newer than the rest."  
  
"The crest belongs to the Montague family. They are a prestigious lot, quite aware of their noble lineage. I have made an in-depth study of their family history. The matriarch is Lady Beatrice Camerick, to whom I am certain the locket belongs. I believe it was a gift from her late husband."  
  
"Let's follow this thread while we have it," I interjected. "Since I am feeling better, there is no need to go to your home at the present."  
  
"We were not anyhow," said she with a mischievous grin. Holmes, I noticed, wore a similar impish expression. "I took it for granted that you would recover swiftly," she continued, "and instructed the driver to go not to my home, but to Montague Hall, the home of Lady Camerick."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
We arrived at Montague Hall at half past one, and were shown into the drawing room. Over the mantelpiece was a larger replica of the crest on the locket. There was someone else waiting there also -- a tall, elegant woman -- but not the lady of the manor. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Armstrong, and explained that she was an employment agent who had supplied two of the servants of the household, Randal and Aileen McNeely, who had disappeared the night before.  
  
"The servants have explained her ladyship's habits to me," she proclaimed, "so I shall relay them to you. Lady Camerick leaves every Friday morning to visit a friend in Yorkshire. She returns Friday afternoon at precisely two. I have brought her the names of several prospective employees. I can scarcely believe that the McNeelys have disappeared," she confided. "They were lucky to receive such an appointment as this, and then to run off without notice or a reference."  
  
"Were they not a respectable couple?" I asked.  
  
"Hardly, but her ladyship hand-picked them. I tried to emphasize to her that the McNeelys were not considered reliable, but she wanted them in particular to work for her. She would have it no other way."  
  
"Thank you for being so candid, Mrs. Armstrong," Miss Chrane said. She turned to Holmes and myself. "I believe in the interim before her ladyship's return, we should question the remainder of the servants."  
  
"Were the McNeelys in the habit of going out or staying out until late hours?" Miss Chrane began. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wallace, acted as spokesman for the group.  
  
"Almost every night and, I must say I did not approve, nor did her ladyship. They would gallivant to the nearest public house and drink all they could afford. They would then boisterously announce their return, waking everyone." The other servants nodded in assent.  
  
"If Lady Camerick did not approve of their actions," I asked "why did she not dismiss them?"  
  
"She believed that we should allow them some license, as long as they saw to their duties, because it would take time for them to learn to live more respectably. We were to teach them by example, she insisted. They took, in my humble opinion, sore advantage of her kindness."  
  
"Had their manner or duties changed in the last few days?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"Yes sir," she replied. "They would stay out until the wee hours as before, but when they came in, they were trying to be quiet for some reason. And her ladyship had them prepare and serve her late dinners."  
  
"I was not even allowed in the kitchen after cleaning up from lunch," the cook confirmed, "not until it was time to prepare breakfast."  
  
"If before they woke everyone before because of the noise," I commented, "how is it that you heard them when they were trying to be quiet?"  
  
"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes interjected.  
  
"I had not been sleeping well for the last few weeks, sir," the maid answered. "Insomnia, they call it. The cook had stayed up with me for the last three nights to keep me company. I heard something one night, but it didn't make sense."  
  
"What was that?" Miss Chrane asked.  
  
"It sounded like a small child crying, and later I heard the McNeelys arguing."  
  
"Did you hear what they said?"  
  
"I heard her say 'I just don't like it, Randal.' And then he said, 'Well, I don't care of you don't like it. We're in this now, and we ain't gonna ruin things for the old lady by squealin'. Not yet, anyhow.' "  
  
Miss Chrane's eyebrow rose an almost imperceptible amount. "Yes ... well, thank you all for your cooperation," she said, and the servants turned to resume their duties. "One last thing -- did Lady Camerick entrust a piece of jewelry to one of the McNeelys?"  
  
The housekeeper started. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Mrs. McNeely was taking her favorite locket to a jewelry shop in the city to be repaired."  
  
"Thank you. That should conclude our questioning," Miss Chrane said distractedly as she started to scribble a note. "Mrs. Wallace, would you see that this is delivered to Inspector MacDougall at Police Headquarters urgently." The housekeeper nodded. Miss Chrane then turned to the maid. "Would you be so good as to fetch us a lamp and show us to the cellar?" The maid disappeared, rejoined us momentarily with the light, and led us to cellar steps. Holmes lit the lamp, and we three began to descend the stairs.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
The door had a tricky catch, and I was afraid we would have been locked in, had Miss Chrane not caught the door and propped it open. The cellar itself was cluttered and musty. We worked our way around dusty shelves full of ancient volumes and trinkets. Holmes' peering eyes darted all around the room in the low light, while Miss Chrane, at the periphery of the circle of light, rummaged through shelves and boxes. Suddenly she shouted.  
  
"Halloa! What's this? Sherlock, bring the light!" She pulled from the box a cloth doll. "There have been no children in this house for forty years, and any doll left here would have since deteriorated." She turned the doll over, and read the embroidery on its underside. "Just as I suspected: 'Eliza Webb, Edinburgh Orphanage'. Let us see what other treasures this chest contains." She removed two overcoats that had the boys' names sewn in them. "This should be enough evidence. Now we have her!"  
  
" 'Her'? " I asked. "Don't you mean 'them'?"  
  
"The McNeelys are only accomplices, Doctor. We'll deal with them soon enough, but her ladyship is our immediate quarry!" Miss Chrane exclaimed as she galloped up the stairs.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
We entered the drawing room at the stroke of two. Outside the French windows, I noticed a carriage bearing the same crest, out of which stepped an elderly woman with an air of dignity. She soon entered the Hall. The maid announced our presence and that of Mrs. Armstrong, as Lady Camerick entered the room.  
  
"Thank you, Mary. That will be all." The maid curtseyed and closed the door behind her. "Mrs. Armstrong, thank you for coming. I shall be with you in a few moments. Miss Chrane, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson? Despite the fact that you have harassed my servants and violated my home, for which I do want an explanation, I am glad that you are here. I should prefer to have the police present, but I do I wish to report a robbery."  
  
"A sapphire of that size should have been on deposit with a bank," Miss Chrane advised, "not hidden in your home." Her indignation only heightened with this statement. She scowled her reply. "If your ladyship would like an explanation, the best one that I can offer you that we shall be detaining you until the police arrive."  
  
"This is an outrage!" Lady Camerick hissed. "On what charge?"  
  
"On the charge of the willful murder of Roger Smith, Christopher McGlynn, and Eliza Webb of the Edinburgh Orphanage."  
  
The woman screamed and clasped her chest. She stumbled towards a chair, yet fell to the ground. I rushed to her side and felt for a pulse, but my search was in vain: there was none. "She is dead," I said at last.  
  
"Justice, therefore, hath served itself," Emily Chrane muttered expressionless. Mrs. Armstrong, who had been totally ignorant of the particulars of the whole horrid affair, fainted dead away. Holmes caught her, and laid her gingerly in a nearby chair.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
"Are the McNeelys in custody, Inspector?" Miss Chrane asked when the inspector arrived half an hour later.  
  
"Yes," he replied. "They came to us, just as you said they would, and they were in possession of a rather large gem. They most likely did not stop to think that they might soon be facing the gallows themselves. They probably wouldn't be, if it weren't for you." Miss Chrane gave a theatric bow. "How did you know they would come to us?"  
  
"They were waiting until they had uncovered the prized sapphire of the Montague line before implicating their, now late, employer. They had obviously found it, hence their recent disappearance. If they had taken the time to return her ladyship's locket before their flight, I might not have been able to trace them here. The time had come for them to carry out their own plans, in an attempt to exonerate themselves from their guilty consciences." The inspector looked quizzically at her. "The facts are elementary, Inspector: Lady Camerick had her servants abduct, strangle, and mutilate the children." Mrs. Armstrong had begun to regain some measure of consciousness, but at this remark, with a groan, she fainted again. "She is entirely too emotional," Emily Chrane said flatly as we left.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
On the return journey to London, we three discussed the case. "Deductive reasoning," Miss Chrane began, "does have its limitations. It can reasonably detect and order facts, and it can anticipate emotions -- the human equation, as Sherlock calls it -- yet, its main _culpa_ is that it cannot foresee the workings of the lunatic mind."  
  
"So the conclusion that Lady Camerick was involved," said I, "was just a guess on your part."  
  
"Never accuse me of relying on mere conjecture, Doctor!" she snapped, obviously offended. "The fact that her locket was lying by the girl's body could not be a coincidence. The odds against it are infinitely high. Besides, I have told you that I had made a study of her family: Lady Camerick had a terrible experience in her past.  
  
"She was the Honourable Beatrice Montague before her marriage to Lord Camerick. Upon the death of her husband, she left Camerick Castle in Glasgow to the care of her oldest son, the present Lord Camerick, and returned to her ancestral home. She was a child there at Montague Hall. The unfortunate incident occurred when her parents went on a trip to the Continent. She and her sister were left in the care of their governess. The woman was a drunkard and incompetent, and left the girls unsupervised for days on end. They accidentally locked themselves in the very cellar we investigated. You saw how easily it could happen, for it almost happened to us. The girls were accustomed to playing in the cellar. When they realized they could not get out, her sister -- a frail, weak-hearted girl -- died from fright and panic. They were discovered a week later, when their parents returned. They found their surviving daughter driven half mad from the experience, and his sister's fingers picked clean of flesh. The poor girl tried to survive by dining on them.  
  
"The Camerick household has long been known for short appointments and frequent dismissals. Lady Camerick had a reputation for hiring people with a past. To the casual observer, it appeared that she was attempting rehabilitate former criminals. When dismissed, they went on their way with an unimpeachable recommendation. Considering the depths to which they had plummeted because of their employer, that would be the least she could do.  
  
"This most recent rash of murders is hardly unique. Over the years in Edinburgh, there have been many disappearing children, and many other discoveries of digitless corpses. Even two fingerless skeletons were fished from Loch Lomond near Glasgow some years ago. Apparently the McNeelys were manipulated into supplying children's fingers for her ladyship's odd tastes, as I have no doubt did the other disreputable servants before them. The McNeelys, however, were resourceful enough to find the famous sapphire. They were no 'butler of Hurlstone,' but they were intelligent enough to search when the lady was out. Lady Camerick feared theft, and removed the jewel from the ancient family crest about the fireplace, replacing it with a replica of blue glass."  
  
"If she feared theft, why did she employ disreputable servants?" I asked.  
  
"It is the converse, Watson," said Holmes. "She feared theft _because_ she employed disreputable servants. Nevertheless, she needed attendants who were desperate for their situations. If they were not, they would not hesitate to inform the authorities. Lady Camerick's 'kind nature,' as the housekeeper put it, was in actuality that of a extortionist, not far removed from the people she employed. One good reference would guarantee respectable employment elsewhere, while the lack thereof would mean almost certain ruin. Her ladyship held all the cards: she had the power to assure that they never worked again."  
  
"The McNeelys were taking a great chance by accusing Lady Camerick. Did they not think that they would also be implicated?" I asked.  
  
"Undoubtedly they knew her ladyship had a weak heart," Miss Chrane answered, "and were relying upon very much the same reaction she had when I accused her. They could see her guilt eating away at her. They were staking their lives on the fact that she would not live long enough to name them as confederates. That sapphire is the size of an egg and is worth a fortune, so I think they were willing to take that risk."  
  
"But why did they choose orphans?" I asked. "And why would the children go with them?"  
  
"They might have thought that, in a crowded orphanage, the children would not be easily missed," she continued. "They enticed them with a piece of candy, perhaps, or the promise of a good home. Life in an orphanage is a hard life, and that promise would be tempting. The orphans have some time outside every day, so the McNeelys could find them effortlessly."  
  
"But why would Lady Camerick crave fingers?" I inquired.  
  
"I have made a small study of mental disorders, Doctor," Emily Chrane replied. "The circumstances suggest that, because she had consumed no more than her sister's fingers, she would crave no more than the fingers. You have heard of the _idee fixe_ psychosis?" We nodded. "Fingers became the _idee fixe_ of her obsession. She had tried, I imagine, to combat the craving, and had had some periods of success, long stretches of lucidity. During these times she would dismiss her more disreputable servants, attempting to carry on with a normal life. However, inevitably, the madness would creep back into her life, and the murders would begin anew.  
  
"I have been trying to catch Lady Camerick at this dangerous game of hers for years. The two skeletons were discovered shortly after I arrived in Edinburgh for my studies. Then I was merely a student, and a woman, no less, so my theories were summarily dismissed. When these new murders started, the instant I heard that the childrens' fingers were missing, I knew that Lady Camerick was involved. I needed more concrete evidence, however. The locket, doll and coats afforded me that. In addition, I needed a way to re-involve myself in the investigation. Sherlock, I hope that you are not perturbed at my using you in this way."  
  
"By no means!" said he. "I enjoyed coming along, even if only for the ride, or should I say the ruse?"  
  
"Now that the police have the entirety of the story, do you think there will be a scandal?" I probed.  
  
"Only the three of us know the entirety of the story," said Holmes. "I imagine the McNeelys will take the blame for these most recent murders, and the others will remain unsolved. The police are generally discreet with their discoveries, particularly when it comes to the nobility. Every noble family has a dark cloud over its past, and every crest stands for at least one blood-soaked act. Even her Majesty may have some sordid secrets she hides well. Nobility always does."  
  
  



	2. The Adventure of the Youngest Client

  
  


**The Adventure of the Youngest Client**

  
  
  
"How can you have any idea of the joys of marriage?" I bellowed at Sherlock Holmes one summer evening. Holmes was intolerant of emotion of any kind, and that night he had been making light of my sentimental conversation regarding my marriage, as he almost always did when I spoke of my wife. On this occasion, however, his gibes were more piercing than usual, and I must admit that it made me furious that Holmes, who had never married nor even loved, should mock my devotion to my wife.  
  
"You think that I have no concept of marital life, eh, Watson?" said he, stretching out in his favorite armchair and lighting his pipe.  
  
"Well, how can you?" I retorted. I did not want to leave it at that. I wanted to say something -- anything -- to upset his unemotional nature as he had repeatedly upset me: I wanted revenge. An insult to his intelligence, which was his pride and joy, was the best strategy, I decided. "You think that you are so knowledgeable in _everything_, but this is something you know _nothing_ about!" I could see the anger welling within him and, at the time, it was delicious, although now I realize how awfully malicious I had been.  
  
"I know more than you think!" he snapped in a harsh whisper, standing. I could tell that, although his tone had altered, he did not want to be angry. He turned toward the hearth, laying his pipe on the mantel, and then doing the same with his long thin arms. He was trying to regain his composure and, like a snake, I stuck again.  
  
"And how -- by _reading about it?!?_" I croaked sarcastically.  
  
I had never in retrospect heard Holmes yell, and it rather startled me. He whirled on me, and at the top of his lungs, roared, "_I was married!!!_" Then, at almost a whisper and with a shrug, he added, "I _am_ married." His outburst was very unlike him, not the usual staid Holmes at all. Nevertheless, he was no longer angry, and truth be told I was too amazed to remain angry long myself.  
  
"What?" I asked in disbelief. "To whom?"  
  
"I think you can answer that," said he, again taking his pipe, sitting, and puffing pensively.  
  
"Emily?" I offered.  
  
"Who else? If ever I had loved, Emily would surely have been the object of my affections." Distractedly, he added, "I don't know if I loved her . . ."  
  
"Tell me about it," I pleaded.  
  
"As curious as you have always been about me ... " I regarded him strangely and he said, "I could tell. I could see it in your eyes, but you never pried, and I was grateful for that. This is the first time you've ever asked me to tell you anything about my personal life. No, I should prefer to discuss it when Emily is here." I was disappointed. He must have followed my train of thought with his eyes for he then said, "Do not despair, my dear fellow! She should be here momentarily."  
  
"You're expecting her?"  
  
"You seem surprised, Watson. You are not the only person who would deign to visit me."  
  
"Does Mrs. Hudson know?" I asked.  
  
"She does. Otherwise she would never have allowed Emily to stay here without a chaperone. Only three living souls know: Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and now you. But here is my wife now."  
  
There was a happy footfall outside the door. I would not have recognized it before that evening, but it sounded like the gait of a cheerful woman on the way to meet her husband. Emily knocked twice and entered. Before she even spoke, however, she looked at my face, turned her gaze upon Holmes, and then studied my expression again. Her own countenance dropped from a warm smile to a frown.  
  
"Sherlock, you've told him."  
  
Holmes nodded. "Watson goaded it out of me."  
  
"I should not have thought that was possible," she grinned. "Well, it is just as well. I've grown weary of your attempting to hide our marriage from your friend."  
  
"Watson wanted us to explain," Holmes said as he took Emily's bags and set them inside his bedroom door.  
  
"What is the extent of his knowledge on the matter?" she asked, removing her gloves.  
  
"Only that we are married," he answered. "I judged it best to await your arrival to discuss the details." He took her arm and led her chivalrously towards the settee. "I'm sorry. I know this is unexpected -- I, too, would have wanted more time to prepare for our discourse on this." Holmes regarded me. "Watson, do please sit down!" I did so, and Holmes alighted beside Emily, taking her hand. He looked different than ever I had seen him before as he gazed deeply into her eyes and said, "Well, my dear, where should we begin?" Emily too appeared changed. There was a peculiar softness in her face, which was usually cold and adorned with concentration.  
  
"At the beginning," she answered. "John, I know that you are shocked and bewildered. For you, I'm certain, this was the single most surprising fact you could have ever conceived of learning. All will be clear with the explanation, however. My bond with Sherlock, you see, goes back many years, and I owe my life to him in more ways than one."  
  
"And I owe my very life," added Holmes, "and all my joys to Emily."  
  
"Please," said I, "I am only getting more confused."  
  
"Yes, dear, dear John," said Emily, with a sweetness that would have shamed the angels. "As it happened," she began, "Sherlock and I grew up together. Our parents were neighbors and friends. It was always assumed that Sherlock and I would wed when we were of age, and our parents were most delighted with our attachment to one another. You already know that Sherlock and Mycroft were my tutors. My father did not believe in the erudition of women, at least not insofar as my interests lay. He wanted nothing more for me than becoming a mistress suitable for the country estate Sherlock was destined to inherit. My curiosity in matters of science was insatiable, however, and my dear friends furtively taught me all they learned."  
  
"And her curiosity," Holmes interrupted, "helped us. Her frequent, thorough questions caused us to delve more deeply into our books and encyclopedias, to try to recount lectures more exactly, and to learn more ourselves. It was a symbiosis of scholarship! Her father, however, discovered this when she was accepted to Oxford; he disowned her, and banished her from his home. Mycroft, who at the time resided in Oxfordshire, took her in, _in loco parentis_."  
  
"I had always thought of Mycroft as something of a father anyhow, and a much better one than my natural father. By giving me opportunities that I should not have had otherwise, Sherlock and Mycroft gave me a life. I, in turn, gave them the Art of Deduction, their first love."  
  
"And we made a life of it," said Holmes. "Mycroft in his way, and I in mine."  
  
"Of course," Emily continued, "Mycroft, Sherlock and I were the best of friends, but Sherlock and I did not know what to make of our attachment to one another. With Mycroft and myself, there was a larger age difference, so he was clearly to be nothing more than a friend and father figure. With Sherlock, however, the gap was not so broad, and, along the lines of accepted relationships, we assumed that we must be in love. In view of all we had been through together, I do not consider this to be an unnatural conclusion."  
  
"As we believed ourselves to be in love," Holmes went on, "we felt compelled to marry, and did so. Emily was not surprised when I proposed, nor was I surprised when she accepted. It had been a foregone conclusion since our youth. We married soon after she had advanced as far as she could at Oxford, in a small service -- just the two of us, a clergyman, and Mycroft as our witness. It was not necessary that we marry. Emily did not need me to take care of her: she is quite proficient in that respect. Nor did I need her to look after me. It was a marriage of love, I suppose, if either of us is capable of that sentiment. We did not let society's practices pressure us into marriage, but we've no regrets."  
  
"We did decide," Emily continued, "that full-fledged matrimony was not for us, as I for one did not need such restraints on my career. After five years, we decided to separate, being able to accomplish more in the field of Deduction if we worked in different areas. I settled in Edinburgh, and Sherlock remained here in London. Had we our lives to relive, however, I should like to think we would do it all the same."  
  
"Why not have the marriage annulled?" I inquired.  
  
"Why? Who would be the better for that?" Holmes asked. "Ah ... You have the wrong idea, my dear fellow. There was no skirmish; we parted on the best of terms. Even though outsiders might see us as estranged, we are, I assure you, still a most happy couple. Geography alone cannot come between us. The only conceivable reason for seeking annulment would be if either of us wanted to remarry. That would be highly unlikely."  
  
"Besides," Emily added, "we enjoy married life when we are together, and we also enjoy the indulgences and freedoms of celibacy when parted. It is a most rewarding union ... and disunion. Everyone should try matrimony in this manner."  
  
"I'm sure that I cannot imagine being away from my wife for any length of time," I said.  
  
"That is where you deceive yourself, Watson," Holmes stated. "Your presence here tonight is a respite from being with your wife, as is the time you pass in consulting, and at your club, and many other occasions. You would tire of spending every waking moment with your spouse. However, after being away from her for several hours, or days occasionally, you are all the more delighted to see her when you return. It is the same with Emily and myself. We spend more time apart than most couples do, but we are even more delighted when we do see one another. And it is essential to our work."  
  
"It is," said Emily. "London needs Sherlock, and Edinburgh needs me! We see each other often enough, whenever there is a break in cases."  
  
"You see, Watson," interjected Holmes, "you always wondered why I would disappear for short periods of time when I had no cases to carry me away. I was attending to my marriage. When you lived here with me at Baker Street, it was often more difficult to slip away. That is why you occasionally encountered me bored and in a foul mood. I wanted to leave, but I could not very well tell you I was off to see my wife. I had all the time in the world, but I was able to spend none of it with the person I most wanted to see. That is also why I never responded to your pushing me toward some of our more attractive clients." My cheeks burned. "Watson, you were as transparent as a freshly-scrubbed windowpane. My interest in such lovely ladies evaporated when their cases were solved because I was already spoken for. Has our explanation been satisfactory, or do you have any more questions? I see that you do," said he reclining.  
  
"Why hide the fact that you are married?"  
  
"There is much to lose by disclosure, Watson, and nothing to gain. Why advertise it? The toll on Emily would be much worse. The only effect on myself that I can foresee would be a loss of clients. The cases in which there is a large element of danger would not as often come my way, as someone might be afraid that my wife would become a widow. Also, some prospective client may decide not to present me with what he considers a trifle -- which might escalate into something of great moment -- simply because my wife and I might be disturbed."  
  
"I, however, could get no cases of my own," said Emily, "nor could I find employment at any establishment. Employers would shun me, suggesting that instead of being a detective, I should be at home caring for my husband. They would not care one jot that I was doing exactly what my husband would want me to be doing. A spinster has much more good fortune finding work because she has to do so."  
  
"But Holmes -- you told me outright that you were not a marrying man!"  
  
"If you will remember correctly, Watson, I asked you if you thought me a marrying man. You said, 'No, indeed!' and you were wrong."  
  
"But you said," I maintained, "that you would never marry because it might prejudice your opinion!"  
  
"I phrased it in that manner," said he, "because you did not know of my marriage, old boy. Had you known, I would have added the word 'again,' for any woman save Emily would bias me. She and I think too similarly for that to be a problem. I heartily apologize, my dear Watson, but the deception was necessary at the time. In the early days, I wasn't sure to what extent I could trust your discretion. It is a relief to my mind that the lie is no longer needed, but I do ask that, in subsequent publications, you will continue to portray me as a bachelor. If it is common knowledge that I am married, it could be dangerous for Emily."  
  
"I give you my word, Holmes," said I. "Emily, do you not worry about ... things? If all of Edinburgh believes that you are unmarried -- "  
  
"Gossip doesn't concern me, John," said she. "However, you do not need to fret about upsetting me with harsh speech. I am less perturbable than most women: say what you mean. If children are the implication of your euphemism, there is no need of worry. I am barren." I shook my head sympathetically. "Don't look so melancholy, my good Doctor."  
  
"You do not want children?" I gasped, shocked at this blatant denial of maternal instinct.  
  
"I do not," she confessed. "Offspring interfere with one's profession."  
  
"What about your vows?" I asked.  
  
"What of them?" Holmes asked nonchalantly.  
  
"You have both professed that you do not feel that you are capable of loving, yet you swore to love one another."  
  
"I don't believe that we will be held accountable for something we cannot do," said Emily. "Still, if we do not love one another, we have gotten closer to love with each other than we have with anyone else. I think we have covered the other vows: we honour, obey, and share our worldly possessions. Surely no one will condemn us for the lack of one little emotion."  
  
"What about adultery?" I asked.  
  
"I don't follow you, Watson."  
  
"Milverton's maid?" I asked.  
  
"Ah that," said he. "That wasn't adultery. I was only romancing the girl a little to obtain information. I don't think that I could be charged with bigamy since I didn't follow through with the engagement. Breach of promise, perhaps."  
  
"I have behaved similarly," Emily said, "when the situation required it. Sherlock and I have an understanding about this."  
  
"Whether or not there is an understanding between you," said I, "I fear that I do not see the difference between that and adultery."  
  
"Would you consider a married actor an adulterer because he played a love scene on the stage?" Emily asked.  
  
"Well, no," said I, "but that is a different situation entirely."  
  
"Not at all," said Holmes. "Acting is something we are required to do often as part of our work."  
  
I had begun to comment on this when Emily stood and held up her hand to quiet me. "Sherlock, are you expecting someone?" The gentleness had disappeared from her face as unexpectedly as it had come, superceded by the familiar cold, calculating look of deduction.  
  
"Only you, my dear. It must be a client, and it sounds like a woman," said Holmes. He too had transformed again. Holmes the sleuth-hound had replaced the transient Holmes-as-lover-and-husband.  
  
A few moments later, Mrs. Hudson announced a young girl -- a mere child. She could not have been more than seventeen years old. She wore a stylish dress of navy blue velvet with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. She entered and addressed Holmes.  
  
"I'm sorry to have called so late, Mr. Holmes, but mine is a most singular and troubling problem," said our visitor as she extended her dainty hand. Holmes shook it, introduced Emily and myself, and motioned her to a chair.  
  
"Pray take a seat, Miss -- "  
  
"Charlotte Williams."  
  
"-- And tell us how we may be of help to you."  
  
She was obviously agitated, yet there was a bright sparkle in her eyes and a lovely rose color in the cheeks of her otherwise pallid face. Her poise and composure were quite precocious: I have only seen the like in women nearly twice her age. She cleared her throat sedately and began her tale.  
  
"I am the oldest of three children. I have come on behalf of my parents, for they refuse to seek help. You see, Mr. Holmes, there have been three threats and two attempts on their lives. I am most frightened for them. The perpetrators have stated plainly that they will do nothing to my siblings or myself, for their quarrel is only with my parents. This is little compensation to me, however, for the vicarious danger is most unsettling. I cannot understand at all why anyone should target my parents, but your reputation, Mr. Holmes, led me to believe that you could point out some detail I had missed."  
  
"Have you asked your parents to explain these threats?" Emily asked.  
  
"Repeatedly."  
  
"And they know the identities of these would-be assassins?" Holmes queried.  
  
"They do not."  
  
"Have you any clues as to their motive for wanting to kill your parents?" I asked.  
  
"None. I'm sure my parents know why, but they will not tell me. They maintain that it is nothing for a person my age to concern herself with. Imagine! My parents' lives are not worth worrying about?"  
  
"Your parents attitudes perplex me, Miss Williams," said Holmes. "They seem cavalier about it all. Could it be that they believe, for whatever reason these people wish them harm, that such a fate would be deserved? They would believe their demise to be justified?"  
  
"That would be how it appears, Mr. Holmes," she answered. "My parents strongly advocate Fate, and believe that they will die if and when they are meant to perish. Worry, to them, is a foolish way to spend their remaining time on this Earth."  
  
"Quite," said Holmes. "Tell us about the threats."  
  
"They were all typewritten. I have them here."  
  
"What a foresighted little girl!" exclaimed Holmes as she produced them from her handbag. She giggled, her only remotely childish action, as Holmes snatched them from her. "How unfortunate!" he snapped.  
  
"What is it, Sherlock?" Emily asked, looking as disappointed as he.  
  
"There are no watermarks and the typewriter is new, so nothing can be inferred. Besides the fact that they were handled by two pairs of gloved hands -- probably a man's and a woman's -- there are no characteristic marks of any kind!"  
  
"The work of a careful person," Emily added.  
  
"From where were they posted?" I asked.  
  
"These people are shrewd, Watson," Holmes said. "They would not allow a postmark to spoil their otherwise flawless scheme. I imagine they were slipped under the door during the night. Miss Williams?"  
  
"That is correct, Mr. Holmes. And they were careful, Miss Chrane, for the notes were not even moist on wet nights."  
  
"How many servants do your parents have?" Emily asked.  
  
"None," she replied. "Mother has always prided herself with taking care of entire household alone."  
  
"When did the notes arrive?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights, the week proceeding the first assassination attempt."  
  
"Tell us about that," Emily proposed.  
  
"It seemed at first to be a hunting accident. Two weeks ago, they were invited to Leicester for a fox hunt by Charles Thorpe of Doughtery Manor. After the chase, when all the riders were walking the horses back to the stables to be groomed, two shots rang past them from a grove of trees. Father's horse was shot, and bolted. Mother's horse reared up, and almost trampled her. She sustained only a sprained ankle, thankfully. All the guests were close by, and there were no traces of anyone else -- not even rifle cartridges in the grove."  
  
"No footprints?" I asked.  
  
She shook her head. "The soil in the grove was dry and hard-packed."  
  
"And the second attempt?" Emily prompted.  
  
"Poison. Last week, they were dining in town at Goldini's. Someone in the kitchen slipped poison into their cocktails. By the end of the meal, they were delirious and nauseous. Traces of cyanide were found at a sub-lethal level, but they were ill for three days. An employee disappeared soon after, but he apparently was disguised and had given a false name. Five men matching his description were found but released, for they all had concrete _alibis_. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.  
  
"I shall do my best," said he. "We shall start our inquiries on your case tomorrow. I would like to know, however, why you have waited so long before consulting me?"  
  
"I only tonight received my parents' permission to come to see you."  
  
"Thank you, Miss Williams," said Holmes, rising.  
  
"Not to worry, my dear girl," said Emily, putting an arm around the girl's shoulders and leading her to the door. She closed the door behind Miss Williams, smiling, and then turned with a snarl. "It does not make sense! Those attempts were deliberately survivable, but what is the connection?"  
  
The speed and ease at which Sherlock Holmes and Emily Chrane arrived at their conclusions always amazed me. Although I had heard and seen exactly what they had, they had made several deductions when I was still in the dark.  
  
"How do you know it was intentional?" I asked.  
  
"If these people had taken so many other precautions -- " Holmes said, "picking up the cartridges, wearing a disguise and giving a false name -- they would have practiced their marksmanship and ascertained the proper lethal dose for cyanide." Holmes retorted, collapsing into his armchair. "Of course it was intentional!"  
  
"How did they know where the Williamses would be and when?" I asked.  
  
"That, my dear Watson," said he, leaning back and placing his fingertips lightly together, "is exactly what we must discover!"  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Shortly thereafter, I left them for the night. When I returned the next afternoon, I found Holmes pacing and smoking his cherry wood pipe. He did not seem to notice me, so I did not demand attention. I sat in his armchair and lit myself a cigar. I had puffed at it merrily for a few moments when Emily entered.  
  
"What is the news from your Irregulars, Sherlock?" she asked.  
  
"Nothing," said he, laying his pipe down on the mantelpiece and thrusting his hands deeply into his trouser pockets. He continued to pace, however, as he said, "Apparently this mystery lies outside of their circles."  
  
"I did not think anything lay outside of their circles," said I.  
  
"Neither did I," Holmes stated, with a smirk.  
  
"And what of the Williamses?" Emily asked.  
  
"Strangely enough, there was no answer to the bell when I called," said he with a broad smile and not a little sarcasm. "I've examined the employees at Goldini's. If any one of them was lying, he was doing an exemplary job of it. Had you any luck?" he asked Emily.  
  
"None," she sighed. "I must have talked to everyone in Leicester. Thorpe was very cooperative. He provided a list of the guests on that day and allowed a search of the grounds and a questioning of the servants. All fruitless, I'm afraid," she said, lacing her fingers behind her back. "The other guests had the same look of truth emanating from them. Needless to say, the Leicester police are baffled."  
  
For some time, Emily and Holmes paced, looking downward. Emily suddenly stopped, and, out of the blue, said: "Politics! I tell you, Sherlock, this case has political overtones. All my instincts say so. Perhaps Mycroft could enlighten us. I know you have a little faith in a woman's intuition. For some ineffable reason, I strongly believe my suspicions to be correct."  
  
"My dear," said Holmes, stretching out on the settee, "I am beginning to agree. It could not hurt to see Mycroft, especially since we have no other course of action at the moment."  
  
Just as he said this, there was a loud clamor downstairs, at which Holmes and I both jumped up. Suddenly, Miss Williams burst into the room, followed by the flustered housekeeper.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, grasping our client by the shoulders, trying to pacify her. "Calm yourself, Miss Williams." When she was less agitated, he added, "Now, what is it?"  
  
"My parents have disappeared!" I was taken aback, but Holmes and Emily, appearing unmoved, merely gave one another a sidelong glance.  
  
"Sit down," said Holmes, "and tell us about it." He guided her onto the settee, then sat beside her, trying to comfort her as best he could.  
  
"My parents went out for their morning walk. They said they would return in half an hour, as usual, but now it has been three."  
  
"But you do not know that they have been harmed?" Emily asked.  
  
"I do not," she answered, "but help me, please!"  
  
"Before we can help you," said Holmes, "we need some more information. Our inquiries, I fear, have come to a dead-end, Miss Williams. We need to know more about your parents to help us to formulate another line of questioning. Would you happen to have a photograph of them we could use?" She nodded, pulled a cameo out of her handbag, and gave it to him.  
  
"And what is your father's occupation?" Emily asked.  
  
"Father is a schoolmaster," the girl stated.  
  
"What does he teach?" Holmes queried.  
  
"Italian language and history."  
  
"Has anything uncommon," Emily inquired, "besides the threats or attempted assassinations, happened?"  
  
"No ... well, there was the inheritance ... Oh, and the telegram. It came about two months ago. It was in Italian, but father said it was from a colleague of his at the University, who had since moved back to Italy."  
  
"It was from Italy?" Holmes asked.  
  
"It was."  
  
"What about the inheritance?" he asked.  
  
"Mother inherited over £5000 from a distant relative."  
  
"Does your mother speak Italian?" Emily asked.  
  
"Yes, fluently. In fact, she and father met in an Italian language class."  
  
"Thank you, Miss Williams. That will do wonderfully," said Holmes as he showed her out. He practically threw her out the door as he said, "We shall contact you if there are any more developments."  
  
"Holmes, you could have been more polite about that," I chided. "That young girl is not as accustomed to your impertinence as others are."  
  
"Watson, amenities bore me!" he retorted as he grabbed his hat and coat and helped Emily on with hers.  
  
"I assume you no longer have to see your brother?" said I.  
  
"You assume incorrectly," said Holmes. "We need Mycroft's help more now than before."  
  
"I thought you had solved it."  
  
"Not completely, Watson, but the solution is impending. Emily, your intuition is to be commended!"  
  
"It is political, then?" I asked.  
  
"I believe so," said Holmes. "That is why we need Mycroft. Are you coming?"  
  
"Of course," said I.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
When we arrived at our destination, we were shown in to see Mycroft Holmes shortly. Holmes and Emily entered in front of me, and I noticed that they were holding hands.  
"I see Dr. Watson knows about the lovebirds," said Mycroft Holmes, barely looking up from his desk. Holmes and Emily immediately parted, blushing. "Emily," said Mycroft, standing, "come give your brother-in-law a kiss!"  
  
"Dear Mycroft," said Emily, embracing him warmly. "They are painting at the Diogenes Club?"  
  
"Oh my," said Mycroft, "I thought that I had removed all the paint from my hair."  
  
"You did," said Emily, smiling, "but paint has a distinct odor which is not as easily removed."  
  
"Ah, yes, well I have had my nose too full of the smell from my luncheon today to notice that it still lingered in my hair. And what may I do for the three of you?"  
  
"I assume you know who these people are," Sherlock Holmes said as he showed the photograph to his brother.  
  
"Antonio and Sophia Lorenzini," said Mycroft Holmes.  
  
"Italian agents?"  
  
"Yes. We had news that they were soon to be returning to their homeland. How did you come by this photograph?"  
  
"Their eldest daughter gave it to us. She was worried that someone was trying to kill them."  
  
"Hmmm . . . very clever. Have they left London yet?"  
  
"We have reason to believe that they left this very afternoon."  
  
"That is unfortunate. You could have done your country a great service by detaining them."  
  
"They were only a few steps ahead of us, but we had no charge to put to them. Planning a false assassination attempt on oneself is hardly punishable by law."  
  
"Well, we have not managed to capture them in twenty-eight years, so you did all that you could, I suppose. What do you plan to tell your client?"  
  
"As little as possible," Sherlock Holmes replied.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Miss William met us at her door, and invited us into her home as if she were born to be the mistress of such an elegant household.  
  
"This arrived a few minutes before your cab, Mr. Holmes," said she, handing him a letter that he passed to me.  
  
I read it aloud:  
  
  
Dear children,  
  
I regret to be the bearer of bad tidings, but your mother and I must  
leave, never to return, and I am afraid we cannot explain why.  
Suffice it to say that it is a matter of great gravity and even  
greater secrecy. We have left you £5000, with which you can begin  
your new lives. Charlotte, you have always been mature for your age:  
your mother and I are certain that you are up to the task of caring  
for your siblings. Go first thing Monday morning to Mr. Fauncewater,  
a solicitor on Bond Street. He will explain the terms of your  
allowance. Good luck, children. We wish you all the joy and  
prosperity in the world! Always,  
  
Your loving father.  
_Arrividerci_  
  
  
"It does leave a great deal unanswered," she said sadly.  
  
"Yes it does, Miss Williams," Holmes began, "but perhaps we can fill in some of the gaps. Your mother seems to be an exquisite typewritist." Miss Williams regarded him strangely. "It was she who typed the threats and they were handled by only your mother and father's gloved hands. They did not get wet on messy nights because they never left the house but were placed, by your parents, inside the front door."  
  
"But . . . the assassins?" she asked. "Surely they did not poison and shoot at themselves!"  
  
"Hired," Emily said. "There is not much a poor man will not do for a guinea. They were most cunning about the execution of their plans, with specific instructions for the 'assassins,' I'm sure. They did it very completely. A planned disappearance was also an excellent _dénouement_."  
  
"But why?" she asked.  
  
"Espionage," I said.  
  
"What?" she whispered.  
  
Holmes glared at me and I realized that the nature of their leaving was one thing he did not want the poor girl to know. Unfortunately, I realized it too late. Now this business had to be fully explained, but I decided to leave all the further explanation to Holmes and Emily, so I would not make another such blunder.  
  
"Your parents," said Holmes, "are Italian spies. They had been here many years, observing the important people of London. They arrived about a decade before you were born."  
  
"Why were they sent here?" she asked. "And why did they have to leave?"  
  
"There we enter the realm of speculation," said Holmes. "They had been here so long, however, that their actual names have been lost in the shuffle, and now there is no way to trace them."  
  
"You do not know where they went?" she inquired.  
  
"When can only speculate regarding their destination, as well. The important thing is they left you well provided for. The 'inheritance' was probably money they brought with them in case of an emergency."  
  
The young lady pondered this information for a long while, then stood. "Well, Mr. Holmes: what is your fee?"  
"Your case was quite a test of our abilities, Miss Williams," said he. "Even though I am aware of your new affluence, I shall not charge you. The problem itself was reward enough, and that money will have to last you a long time."  
  
"I see. Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said she, seeing us to the door. Miss Williams seemed satisfied with their explanation, but I still had some questions. When we were once again in the comfort of the sitting room at Baker Street, I posed them.  
  
"How did you know the threats were handled by a man and a woman?"  
  
"There were two sets of finger impressions," Emily answered, "one much larger than the other. The size difference suggests that one belonged to a man, the other to a woman."  
  
"Why did you ask about their servants?"  
  
"When Miss Williams mentioned that the papers were not damp on the wettest nights," said Holmes, "we knew that there must be a confederate inside the house. There were no servants, so the parents were evidently the culprits. We suspected them from the very beginning, due to their attitude, and the lack of servants confirmed our suspicions. Mr. Williams ties to Italy gave us clues as to how politics were involved while Mrs. Williams fluency in Italian was also a clue. One can learn a language passably from a class, but one does not develop fluency in any language without its frequent and necessary use."  
  
"Why did that not conclude the investigation?" I asked.  
  
"We wanted confirmation," said he. "Since the Lorenzinis could not tell us their story, being safely on their way to Italy, Mycroft was the next best option. It is a poor detective that concludes a case without all the threads tied neatly in a bow."  
  
"Since the Lorenzinis were themselves the culprits," I commented, "that is why the they would not allow their daughter to consult you."  
  
"Exactly!"  
  
"Why do you think they finally relented?" I asked.  
  
"The fact that they suddenly yielded," Emily replied, "would most likely indicate that their arrangements had reached a point at which our involvement could do them no harm. In other words, they were ready to leave, so they decided to allow their daughter to do something, however futile, to calm her own nerves."  
  
"What a shame it is," I said, "that you could not tell Miss Williams where they were going. It might have eased her mind a little."  
  
"I can forgive your letting the espionage remark slip," said Holmes, "for Miss Williams would most likely have not accepted our explanation without it. For whatever reason they were called away, it must be a dangerous business. Miss Williams following her parents to Italy could be the worst possible thing for her. She might be killed, and possibly even at the hands of her own parents."  
  
"Good Lord, Holmes! Why would you say that?"  
  
"When they fear discovery," he replied, "spies can be very cold-blooded. They were willing to do themselves bodily harm in order to throw their daughter off their scent. If she persisted, she may have done so to her own destruction. I read of one Russo-Bohemian double-agent who murdered his wife, as well as his unborn child, when the lady followed him, only because her presence threatened to destroy his cover story."  
  
The conversation then drifted to other subjects. After a smoke, I left them alone for a few days to allow them to attend to their marriage whilst I saw to mine. I only returned after I had a note from Emily saying that she wanted to see me before she left. I climbed the steps to the sitting room unsurely, for I could not imagine why my presence was so important. I asked her so.  
  
"Because you are the best friend of my husband, and a good friend of mine. I wanted to say goodbye." She extended her hand and, instead of shaking it as she probably expected, I seized and kissed it. I knew it would most likely surprise her, but I did not think that it would embarrass her. She flushed a deep crimson.  
  
"Watson, stop flirting with my wife," said Holmes, looking up from a book. "I've never molested your Mary."  
  
"Sorry, Holmes," I chuckled. "Goodbye, Emily. I hope you have a pleasant trip. Holmes, I shall see you later." I walked out of the room, yet my curiosity outweighed my tact and I eavesdropped.  
  
"Come and see me soon, if you can," I heard Emily whisper.  
  
"You know I shall, my dear," Holmes whispered in reply.  
  
"I wish I did not have to go."  
  
"So do I, but you must. As we told Watson, Edinburgh needs you -- right Watson?"  
  
I fell all over myself trying to get down the stairs quickly as they laughed from behind me.  
  
  



	3. The Adventure of the Hidden Treasure

  
  


**The Adventure of the Hidden Treasure**

  
  
  
One summer day, in July of 1896, I wanted to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was no urgent or critical reason. I had simply not seen him in a while and I hoped to spend some time with him, perhaps help him with some case, or merely converse and have a smoke. After learning of Holmes' marriage, I occasionally stayed away, out of respect for the couple's privacy. Part of me was overjoyed that Holmes, like myself, was an old married man. I had often worried about him spending so much time alone, after my own marriage took me away from Baker Street, for he was subject to the blackest moods brought on by lack of cases and isolation. However, the knowledge that he also had Emily as a companion proved that there was no need of worry. Another part of me still longed for the days when I thought he was a bachelor. Even though I was married myself, spending time with the "bachelor" Holmes was something of a treat.  
  
To safeguard the secret of Holmes and Emily's marriage, over the years, I have altered Holmes words here and there in certain accounts. For instance, in _The Valley of Fear_, I wrote the line: "Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her." What Holmes actually said was this: "If I were dead, Watson, I should hope that I had inspired Emily with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by Mrs. Hudson when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her." Holmes often edited his own statements when there were strangers present, but occasionally I rephrased his words myself to obliterate all references to Emily from my accounts. There are too many adventures to name in which Emily was a player, or indeed even the main player, but instead of recounting them all here, I leave it to the reader to deduce which. Emily herself did not care one way or another: anonymity suited her just fine, but Holmes was insistent.  
  
"I have many enemies," he reminded me. "There are those of a vindictive bent who, instead of harming me, might be satisfied just as well by lashing out against my wife." I thought of my own dear lady at home, and his concern seemed completely natural. During the investigations themselves, Holmes passed Emily off as his step-sister, much as Abraham had claimed that his wife was his sister to avoid being killed for her, though Holmes concern was more for Emily's welfare than for his own.  
  
On this particular day, I stood outside the door of 221B Baker Street, looking up at the large sitting room windows with their cheerful draperies, feeling a strange anxiety of expectancy. I rang the bell and Mrs. Hudson appeared shortly and bade me come in. Unfortunately, she informed me that Mr. Holmes was not home at present and was, in fact, meeting a friend at Hyde Park for a fencing match. Apart from me, Holmes did not have many friends and, of the few friends of his I knew, largely comprised of those admirers and contemporaries of his in the police departments, none of them fenced. I assumed, therefore, that this friend must have been an acquaintance from his college days, when he was an active fencer, or earlier in his eventful life.  
  
The sitting room itself seemed as anxious for Holmes' return as I, holding its breath, remaining suspended in time until he entered. When he and I had shared these rooms, I sat there alone for most of the day, save when his early cases retired me to my bedroom, but it never seemed empty. It was only after my marriage and subsequent departure that Holmes seemed a necessary ornament to the room. The area was quite cluttered, as usual, yet it appeared utterly deserted in his absence. I decided to wait in this lonely room for whatever the duration and I was overcome by a feeling of solitude. In order to assuage my desolate sensations, I fiddled with Holmes violin, read the newspapers scattered about, and finally resolved to smoke to while away the time. After I had finished a few cigars, the housekeeper knocked gently and I eagerly asked her to enter. When she entered, she was carrying a telegram on her salver.  
  
"This just arrived," said she. "I thought that, since you have so often helped Mr. Holmes, you might have occasion to read it."  
  
"Has Mr. Holmes been expecting this?" I asked.  
  
"No, Doctor, but I am sure that it will be the start of some great case."  
  
"It could be important," said I, "so I shall take it to him straightaway."  
  
"Are you not going to read it?"  
  
"Of course I shall read it, but _en route_. There is no time to lose."  
  
The telegram read thus:  
  
  
My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes -- My husband and I have lost  
something of great value. Will you come?  
  
Mrs. Violet Morton née Smith.  
  
  
I deemed it best to send a reply to Mrs. Morton, as it might serve to calm her nerves. My message was this:   
  
  
  
Mrs. Morton -- Mr. Holmes has not yet read your cable, but  
I shall have him on his way as soon as I am able.  
  
J. Watson.   
  
  
From the dispatch office, I instructed my cabbie to make directly for the park. Once there, it took me no time to find Holmes and his competitor. The other man was a sight! I had always thought Holmes a thin man, but one glance at this fellow changed my mind forever. He had surpassed Holmes' thinness by far and I daresay entered into his own realm of slimness. His fencing garb hung so loosely on him that I believed it would scarcely stay on him of its own will. His suit resembled the excessive folds of skin on the cattle I had seen roaming the streets of India when I was an army surgeon stationed in the East. Even I, as a doctor, had never seen a healthy man so thin. He was not, however, without energy. He fenced skillfully. He rushed upon Holmes with a forward thrust that knocked my friend off balance, and Holmes fell supine to the ground. He lay still as death for a moment and then sat up, pulling his legs up to his breast. Holmes removed his mask and folded his arms on his knees as he called to me.  
  
"Watson, what the deuce are you doing here?" His opponent extended his hand, helping Holmes to his feet.   
  
"I found myself at Baker Street awaiting your return," said I, "when a telegram arrived. I suggested to Mrs. Hudson that I should bring it round to you."  
  
"Capital, Watson!"  
  
I began to walk closer to them, and, as I did so, the face of Holmes' opponent, which had been unclear under the wire mask, came into focus. It was a man with a brown hair and a similarly hued moustache, but with peculiarly feminine features. I stared for some minutes at the gentleman, and I was appalled when I realized that it was Emily. She raised a warning finger to her the wire of her mask to quiet me as we boarded my waiting cab. Her manner of speaking surprised me.  
  
"John, I shan't tell if you won't," said she.  
  
"Why are you wearing male fencing garb?" I asked.  
  
"Sherlock's fencing garb, to be more precise. I was simply fencing, and doing a good job of it, as well." Holmes glared at her playfully.  
  
"But why were you impersonating a man?" I asked.  
  
"Were you fooled?" she inquired.   
  
"I must admit that I was," I answered, "but why?"  
  
"Ha! I could have fooled anyone then!" she exclaimed.  
  
"I resent that!" I retorted.  
  
"Oh, no, my dear fellow," she added, patting my forearm. "I mean it as neither an insult to your perception nor to your intelligence. I was indicating that if you, knowing me better than all of London, were deceived, then I should not have to worry about deluding perfects strangers."  
  
"But why the disguise?" I asked again.  
  
"Fencing is a man's sport, John. Would you not have been more surprised to see me as myself fencing in a dress?"  
  
"I did not think of it that way," said I.  
  
"Even though my dressing as a man may be shocking to you," said she, "there are instances in which my _not_ dressing as a man would cause more of a stir. The loose suit gives the impression that I am an excessively lean man, and not a woman, by hiding my womanly shape. Besides, it is a difficult task at best to fence in heavy skirts. You should attempt it sometime! While long skirts provide the benefit of hiding one's legs and masking one's next move, the hindrance to movement is a decided disadvantage. Now, where is this telegram which is so important?"  
  
"I have it here," said I, pulling it from my pocket. "It is from one of your former clients, Holmes."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Our Miss Violet Smith," said I. "I took the liberty of sending a reply."  
  
"Which said?" he asked.  
  
"That we are on our way."  
  
He nodded with this compliment: "Good thinking." He then motioned for me to read the wire aloud. "It's very vague," he said, evidently puzzled. "I wonder what is missing that is so troubling our bicycling friend. A large South African diamond, perhaps?"  
  
"That would account for her obvious agitation," Emily added.  
  
"Not so obvious to me, I fear," said I. "How do you know she is agitated?"  
  
"I know because she sent a telegram," she answered. "Why would a telegram be a herald of agitation, John?"  
  
"I am sure that I do know," said I.  
  
"Think it through, Watson," Holmes said. "Do not be discouraged because you reach your conclusions more slowly than we. The important thing is that you do reach them. Swiftness comes with practice. Emily and I have at least a two-decade head start on you, but you have improved immensely in your acumen since we first met." It took me a few strenuous moments of deep thought but I arrived at what I believed a possible explanation.   
  
"Women tend to send letters," I began, "but telegrams travel faster. She was upset, so she sent a telegram to get the message to Holmes as soon as possible."  
  
"Exactly!" exclaimed Emily, beaming. "Telegrams are priority post and are usually delivered within an hour or two of being dispatched. The regular post is much slower. Bravo, John!" I was not quite sure if she was in earnest or just humoring me; I was pleased with myself, however, so I did not care deeply.   
  
"We must change quickly and be off to Coventry," said Holmes when we were almost back to 221B. "We can just make the next train."  
  
"Holmes, how could you possibly know the telegram was from Coventry," I cried. "It only says so on the envelope which is still in my breast pocket."  
  
"I have a good memory for _minutiae_," said he. "Last year when Miss Smith visited us with the pretty little problem of _The Solitary Cyclist_, she stated that her fiancé was employed in Coventry."  
  
"A good memory?" I gasped. "I should call that an exceptional memory!"  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Upon arriving at Baker Street, Holmes and Emily rushed upstairs to change their attire, whilst I explained the situation to a flustered Mrs. Hudson. They emerged an amazingly short time later discussing the fencing match.   
  
"You could never defeat me before, Sherlock," Emily said at the onset of the conversation. "What gave you the desire to try again?"  
  
"I have waxed stronger since my youth," Holmes answered as we boarded the waiting four-wheeler, "and I hoped a greater amount of force would aid me."  
  
"Victory in fencing depends on skill, not might, as you well know," said she. "Otherwise, I could never have bested you."  
  
"I can still outbox you," said he.  
  
"Of course you can, and you always will be able to do so. You are a first-rate boxer and, for you, it is a necessity. I, however," said she, pulling a two-shot derringer from her handbag, "require other forms of protection. Your fencing faults," she continued, as she replaced her weapon, "are easily analyzed. Your straight thrusts were never superb and were always susceptible to my parries."  
  
"I shall have to work on them," said he.  
  
"Perhaps," she answered kindly, "one day I may coach you instead of combatting you."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Once in Coventry, we made for the Morton's house at once, and were shown into the drawing room immediately upon our arrival. The room was arranged as follows: On the east wall was a large sofa with a low table in front. The north wall had a large hearth situated between two doors leading to the main entry hall. The west wall had a smaller sofa, over which hung a portrait of the couple, with another table. North of the sofa was a door leading to the library; to the south was a hall that seemed to run the length of the house. There was an alcove in the west half of the south wall, which contained a writing desk on the southernmost wall, an aquarium on the alcove's east wall, and a piano and bench that made a forty-five degree angle between the western and southern walls of the alcove.  
  
I confined my observations to the alcove, while Holmes and Emily made a preliminary examination of the remainder of the room. I did not find anything of great moment, or even anything that had a bearing on the case, but my earlier success had boosted my spirits, and I attempted, to the best of my ability, to apply Holmes' methods. Within the space of a few moments, Mrs. Morton joined us, greeted us warmly.  
  
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am so glad that you have come," said she.  
  
"This is my step-sister, Miss Emily Chrane," said Holmes, "who is occasionally good enough to aid me in my investigations."  
  
Mrs. Morton was an exceptionally lovely woman before her marriage, and the securing of her inheritance. Could it be possible, however, that she was even more beautiful afterward? She blushed as I said, "I do believe, Mrs. Morton, that marriage must agree with you."  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Watson," said she sweetly. Her face positively glowed.  
  
"Have you learned that new Chopin piece for the party this Saturday?" I asked.  
  
Mrs. Morton shook her head. "Usually playing has a most relaxing effect on me, but I have not been able to think of it for the last two days." Her eyes widened. "How on earth did you know that?" she marveled.  
  
"Yes, how did you know that, Watson?" Holmes asked.  
  
"It was elementary, Holmes," said I. "I observed a party invitation on the writing desk with this Saturday's date. Mrs. Morton, being an accomplished musician, is likely to entertain her guests with her playing. There is a piece of music on the piano, which would indicate that it is the present object of study, and the piece is by Chopin."  
  
"You are a clever little devil, John," said Emily, winking in my direction. "How did you ascertain that the piece was new, and not an old one, her memory of which she was refreshing?" she asked, as she walked toward the piano.  
  
"I guessed," said I.  
  
Emily inspected the piece. "One of my favorites ... You should not guess, John," said she. "It is a dangerous habit to form, for it is destructive to the reasoning process. You come to rely on probability rather than certainty, and in some cases it is too risky to speculate. Play the odds on horses all you want, but do not gamble when it comes to people. For future reference, the crispness of the paper suggests that the score is new."  
  
"My husband," said Mrs. Morton, "should be along in a few minutes. It was he who saw the entirety of the incident."  
  
"What exactly was the incident?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"A large diamond of mine is missing. There was an attempt to steal it, along with my other jewels, but all the others were recovered."  
  
"How large was this diamond?" he queried.   
  
"Fifty-one grains," she answered.   
  
"That would make quite a plunder, even if the thief took nothing else. How was it cut?"  
  
"It was of a brilliant cut," she replied.   
  
"Being so large a stone," said Holmes, "it would make a rather ostentatious piece of jewelry, so I imagine it was not in any sort of setting?"  
  
"You are correct, Mr. Holmes," she answered. "It was not set. It was more of a conversation piece than an ornament."  
  
"The house and grounds have been thoroughly searched?"  
  
"Yes, and there is no sign of it."  
  
"Who is the official agent in this matter?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"Inspector Gillis," Mrs. Morton stated. Holmes' eyebrows rose far from imperceptibly. The name sounded familiar to me also.   
  
"Gillis?" I asked. "You've mentioned him to me before, Holmes, have you not?"  
  
"I believe I have," said he with a smirk. "I have worked with him before."  
  
"Is he not the inspector with the persistence of a bulldog?" I asked.   
  
"That is he," Holmes answered, chuckling. "Unfortunately, he has the intelligence of a bulldog, as well. However, once I convince him that I am correct, he will follow my theories to the ends of the Earth. He is a most helpful ally when he has seen the truth."  
  
Mr. Cyril Morton entered the drawing room shortly. He was a very handsome man, quite worthy of such an attractive wife. He was tall and husky, of a somewhat bovine build with broad shoulders and a barreling chest. He had a thoughtful face with a contemplative, wrinkled brow, and a strong, set jaw. My first impression, based on only his build, was that he was an easily angered man. His kind nature dispelled this assumption, for his demeanor revealed an amiable man.  
  
"Cyril, this is Miss Chrane, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson," said Mrs. Morton when he entered.  
  
"Hello," said he, and to his wife, "I am so sorry that I am late, my dear. I was detained at the office."  
  
"Mr. Morton," Holmes said, "please give us your account of what has occurred here."  
  
"Two nights ago," Morton began, "my wife and I were asleep in our bedroom, when we were awakened by a noise in this room. I came to investigate."  
  
"What time was that?" Holmes asked.   
  
"It was almost half past one," said he.  
  
"Where is your bedroom?"  
  
"It is at the end of this hall," Morton answered, pointing to the long hall "on the right."   
  
"How long do you estimate that it took you to travel from that room to this?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"About thirty seconds, I imagine," Morton replied.   
  
"Could you repeat the action," Holmes queried, "so we may time it?"  
  
"Of course," said he as he motioned for us all to follow him down the hall. We filed into the room and all looked to Holmes for indications of what we should next do.   
  
"To make it almost genuine, we shall go back into the other room, and call when you are to return. Be sure to do everything just as you did two nights ago."  
  
Holmes, Emily and myself returned to the drawing room. When Holmes had taken his watch from its pocket, he yelled, "Now!" Morton rejoined us shortly, with his dressing gown thrown on sloppily over his clothes, and Holmes replaced his watch as he said, "Thirty-two seconds. I extol your estimate. Most would be too flustered to estimate that accurately." His manner of speaking now changed, assuming the quality of thinking aloud. "That would be ample time to flee through the window, unless . . . perhaps he did not sense discovery . . . or . . . "  
  
"He was detained somehow," Emily said, "and could not make good his escape."  
  
"I think he had fallen, Miss Chrane," Morton asserted.   
  
"Why do you think so?" Holmes asked.   
  
"The piano had rolled a few feet, and the piano bench was overturned," he answered. "Also, it looked as if he had just stood as I entered, and his hair was ruffled."  
  
"Excellent, but how could you see this?" Holmes queried.   
  
"He had a lantern with him. I'm sure that it was his cry and the sound of his crashing against the piano that woke me."  
  
Holmes nodded in agreement. "I assume," Holmes continued, "that you retrieved that revolver on that night?"  
  
Morton was clearly surprised as he produced the firearm from his pocket. "This is a part of a collection I inherited from my father. You did say to repeat the events exactly, so I slipped it into the pocket of my dressing gown as I did on that night. It was with this that I held him at bay."  
  
"Then what happened?" Holmes inquired.   
  
"He dropped a small black bag when he saw me. He then turned to the window and yelled, 'Run, Georgie, run!' My wife woke the butler and sent him for the police, whilst I confined the scoundrel in this room."  
  
"Mr. Holmes!" cried a voice from outside the open window.  
  
"Inspector Gillis!" said Holmes, without turning. A few moments later the man joined us in the drawing room. He was a short and portly man with a ruddy face. His sunken, beady eyes peered expectantly from behind dirty spectacles. I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh when I saw him, for he was very comical, but I repressed the inclination with difficulty.   
  
"Have you apprehended the confederate from outside the house?" Holmes asked.   
  
"No, Mr. Holmes," replied the Inspector, "but we have the other one. Rickerson, his name is."   
  
"We have not been outside as yet," said Holmes. "There are prints outside the window, I presume?"  
  
"Inside and out. There is a well-marked print on the window seat."  
  
"Yes, square-toed right boot print missing part of the heel," said Holmes. "I noticed it."  
  
"The prints outside," Gillis continued, "are not very clearly defined. It rained here last night."  
  
"Rain: it is alternately the detective's greatest friend and his worst enemy. It allows critical impressions to be made and then washes them away. Have you interviewed the jewelers in the area?" The Inspector shook his head as. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. We must check the obvious places first, Gillis!" said Holmes patronizingly. "Well, you may leave that to us, if you will kindly point us in the right direction."  
  
Gillis scrawled out a quick list.   
  
"Mr. Morton, I suppose that the jewels were taken from this wall-safe," Emily called, pointing at the portrait.   
  
"How did you know there was a safe behind it?" he asked.   
  
"Why else would a picture frame have hinges?" she remarked, shrugging. Sherlock Holmes and Emily Chrane studied the scene carefully for a few more moments, and we three then left to discover what we could at the jewelers.   
  
There were only three jewelers in the immediate area. At the jewelers, our ruse was that Emily and I were engaged and inspecting different shops for a suitable wedding band. Holmes was acting as Emily's brother and chaperone.  
  
"Why am I to be the groom?" I asked.  
  
"Emily and I could pass for brother and sister," said Holmes, "but you and she could not."  
  
"Does it bother you to be engaged to me, John?" Emily asked. I shook my head. "It is only for one afternoon. I think you will survive the ordeal." She then took my arm, and led me into the first shop.  
  
At each shop, as we gazed at the rings, we would converse indifferently and work the conversation around to asking about the largest stone the jeweler has ever seen. We had only bad fortune at the first two, for no stones of that approximate weight had come through in at least two months. At the third, the jeweler recalled that a diamond of forty-eight grains had been appraised within the previous two days, but, alas, it was a marquise cut, not a brilliant cut and to be recut would have greatly diminished its weight.   
  
"The stone could have traveled far away in two days," said Emily on the journey back to the Morton's home, "but I don't think it ever left the drawing room."  
  
"Why not?" I asked.  
  
"All the others were still there," said Holmes.  
  
As we stepped from our four-wheeler, my friends raced around to the side of the house to see the prints in the yard. I trailed behind but arrived in time to hear Emily say, "These prints are not as muddled as we were led to believe. The large overhang of the roof saw to that." When once again inside, Holmes told Gillis that he could call off the search for Georgie.   
  
"But we haven't caught him yet, Mr. Holmes!" Gillis exclaimed.   
  
"You won't, either," Holmes retorted.   
  
"If he's out there, by God, Mr. Holmes, we'll find him!" he remarked, slapping his fist into his hand emphatically.  
  
"That's just it, Gillis," Holmes said. "He's not out there."  
  
"Where is he, then?" Gillis asked impatiently.   
  
"He doesn't exist."  
  
"Really, Mr. Holmes! This is too much!" the Inspector shouted.   
  
"The prints outside," Holmes cited, "were defined clearly enough for anyone to tell that there were none leading away. This was due, however, to the simple fact that the only criminal was led out the front door. Had Georgie run down the lane, he would have had to have jumped about twelve feet to have reached the lane without leaving prints." Gillis shook his head. "Well, Gillis, did he _fly_?"  
  
"Perhaps he did not stand by the window," Gillis asserted.   
  
"Where would you have stood?" Holmes asked. "If you were standing guard, you would stand by the window so that you could raise the alarm as quickly as possible, and at the lowest possible tone."  
  
"I suppose that's right," said Gillis, "but, still, one set of that mess of prints could have been Georgie's."   
  
"I still haven't convinced you there was no Georgie?" Holmes asked.   
  
"No," Gillis answered with impertinence.  
  
Holmes clapped his hands to his eyes despairingly. "All right," said he, sighing. "How about this: all of the right boot prints at the window are missing the back portion of the heel causing a triangle at the back of the print, just like the one the window-seat. Did he stand on his tiptoes just so we wouldn't get a good look at the impression of his heels?"  
  
"I suppose you are right, but if so what happened to the jewel?" Gillis cried. "If Rickerson didn't have it on his person and there was no Georgie, where did it go?"  
  
Holmes collapsed into the chair to the right of the window-seat, buried his head in his hands and said, "I don't know, Gillis. I just don't know . . . yet."  
  
Holmes and Emily sat in the drawing room for some time to think. Mrs. Morston asked if we should leave the room and I, seeing that my friends were already lost in thought, answered for them, saying that it would not be necessary.  
  
"Nothing," said I, "short of an alarm of fire or the roof's crashing in, could disturb their thought processes." Holmes drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair he occupied and Emily, on the sofa opposite him, tapped her digits lightly on each other.   
  
In the meantime, I began to admire Mr. Morton's aquarium. Two of the fish, which were charcoal grey with orange spots, were much larger than the rest.  
  
"What are these?" I asked.  
  
"They are called Tiger Oscars."  
  
"And the minnows?" I asked.  
  
"Are food for the Oscars."  
  
I shuddered as one of the Oscars slowly stalked up to one of the minnows, and opened its mouth. The smaller fish disappeared in an instant to the sound of a large popping noise. The other of the Oscars was sucking up the rocks into his mouth. "Is he eating the rocks?" I asked. Emily seemed to stop her contemplation to watch us.  
  
"They don't eat them, Doctor. They just draw them into their mouths then spit them out. I am not certain why they do it, but they are forever rearranging their surroundings."  
  
"How could I have been such a fool?" Emily suddenly cried, standing and clapping her hand to her forehead.   
  
"Yes!" Holmes exclaimed, with a look of epiphany. He quickly shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, baring his pale, sinewy arms. This action, which usually disgusted me, for it signified that he was about to indulge his cocaine addiction, filled me with anticipation on this occasion. "Mr. Morton, I apologize sincerely," said he as he plunged his arms into the aquarium. He felt about the gravel chips at the bottom, and produced the beautiful stone.  
  
"You are forgiven, Mr. Holmes," said Morton, applauding, "exonerated completely, but tell us how you and Miss Chrane deduced this!"  
  
"Even before we inspected the footprints," Holmes began, "we had suspicions that the jewel was here, somewhere."  
  
"Why?" Gillis asked.   
  
"Because the other jewels remained," said he, drying his arms with the towel Mrs. Morton brought him. "Why would Rickerson have given his accomplice the one jewel and not the others?" Holmes stated.   
  
"Perhaps he was astonished by its size and beauty, and was showing it to his friend?" said Gillis.   
  
"He would most likely save his astonishment for when he was safely in away from the scene," Holmes added. "Also, he was nowhere near the window when Mr. Morton discovered him. We had to check the jewelers the area, however, to be thorough. With the disproving of the 'Georgie' theory, we had to rely on the supposition that the stone never left the room. Rickerson probably began to walk backwards from the safe and, while careful to avoid the table, he was lost in the splendor of the stone, and forgot about the piano bench. When he tripped, he most likely threw his arms up to regain his balance, and the stone flew from his hands as he fell. Loosely applying the laws of ballistics, one can calculate the trajectory of the stone. It would fall into the aquarium, and the fish promptly buried it under the rocks. Diamonds are difficult to distinguish in water anyhow, and it does not help matters when the fish have a predisposition for burying things."  
  
"Mr. Holmes," said Gillis, "there is still one thing I do not understand. Why should Rickerson want us to believe that there was another culprit?"   
  
"Not us," said Holmes. "He was trying to distract Mr. Morton for a possible escape. Your first impulse was, Mr. Morton, to run after Georgie, was it not?"   
  
"I must admit that it was, but I changed my mind, for I did not want to lose the prisoner I had. A bird in the hand, you know."  
  
"Well said, indeed. Rickerson was probably planning to make a run for it; however, you changed your mind and, therefore, he had to change his."   
  
"Rickerson had a chance to cut his sentence by telling us where the jewel was," said the Inspector. "Why did he not talk?"  
  
"It is likely that he did not know its location," said Holmes. "If he were walking backwards, the stone would have flown behind him and, since he was falling, he would have been making too much noise himself to hear a splash." With this business concluded, we left for the train station.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
On the train home to London, I was struck by a curious fact: Emily had hardly opened her mouth the entire afternoon. Holmes asked practically all of the questions and gave most of the answers and explanations. Her reason was simple.  
  
"It was Sherlock's client and his case."  
  
"You've asserted your own ideas before," I protested.  
  
"Sherlock was doing quite fine on his own. I only intervene when he forgets something, or makes a mistake, or if my moment of insight comes before his, as it did today. We think along the same lines, however, so that is hardly ever a problem. We generally arrive at conclusions simultaneously." With all questions answered, then, and another case solved, we went back to Baker Street where we could converse, and where Holmes and I could have that long-awaited smoke.  
  
  



	4. The Adventure of the Widowed Musician

  
  


**The Adventure of the Widowed Musician**

  
  
  
I was accustomed to coming to Baker Street and hearing the sweet serenade of violin music. When Sherlock Holmes was busy on a case, his playing was an important part of his thought process. When he was not working, his violin served to while away the time and to alleviate the boredom between cases. This time, however, in the fall of 1896, as I climbed the steps to the sitting room, there was something else in addition: the clear, beautiful voice of a flute to Holmes' accompaniment. So as to not disturb them, I waited until the end of the piece to enter the sitting room.  
  
"Emily?" I asked as I opened the door.  
  
"Hello, John," said she as she began to dismantle her horn. Holmes shook my hand warmly after he had set his own instrument on its stand by the hearth.  
  
"What was that?" I asked. "It was lovely."   
  
"It was our own variation of one of the 'Sonotas for Violin or Flute' by Jean-Marie Leclair," said Emily.  
  
"Play it again!" I pleaded.  
  
"Watson, you know what a serious musician I am, as is Emily," said Holmes, "but there are more important things at hand. Read this." He snatched up from the table a telegram, which he tossed to me. It ran:  
  
  
Mr. Holmes -- I must consult you upon an urgent matter of great  
importance. The police do not understand. I will call at 10:30, and  
I beg you to see me.  
  
Nathaniel West  
  
  
"His name sounds familiar," said I. "Do you know him?"   
  
"I've never heard of him," Holmes answered, "but, unless I am very much mistaken, we shall all soon meet him, for that is his knock." A moment later, Mrs. Hudson appeared with her salver in the doorway. "Nathaniel West to see us?" Holmes asked.   
  
"My duties with you are so easy, Mr. Holmes," said she. "Shall I send him in?" Holmes nodded.   
  
Our visitor was a man of medium height and build. He had rather tan skin, such as the English sun does not produce -- the kind of coloring that would usually prompt Holmes to say that he had served in India in her Majesty's army, if coupled with a military air, which this man did not possess: he was a civilian. He had dark hair and black eyes that seemed to overpower the remainder of his face. He was clean-shaven, except for a large, well-groomed moustache. He was elegantly dressed and also, I noticed, in mourning. Holmes addressed him.  
  
"Mr. West," said he, extending his hand, "who are you and how may I help you?"   
  
"You have not heard of me?" said West, obviously surprised as he shook my friend's hand.   
  
"Besides that facts," Holmes began, "that you have spent a great deal of time in America, play the French horn, and have recently lost a loved one -- "  
  
"Recently widowed," interrupted Emily, gazing downward. She looked as if she were studying the carpeting, but she was apparently paying close attention.  
  
"-- I know nothing of you," said Holmes.   
  
"That is truly amazing, Mr. Holmes," said our guest. "I have heard rumours as to your abilities, but now I am certain that they quite were true. How did you know all those things?" he asked.  
  
"I knew I'd heard of you!" I shouted, finally recognizing our guest. "He's a famous musician, Holmes, formerly of America, now of London."   
  
"Thank you for the introduction, Mr. -- "  
  
"Dr. Watson," said I, "and this is Miss Chrane." As I said her name, Emily seemed to jolt awake, but she then calmly rose and greeted Mr. West.  
  
"I really must know how you know so much about me," the man insisted. "Have you been spying on me?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking," Holmes replied, "but we began spying from the moment you entered this room and not a second before. When we shook hands, I had occasion to observe your left hand and noticed your flattened fingertips. Most players of brass instruments, bar the trombone, have this type of spatulate fingerend, but only those who play the French horn have them on the left hand. Anyone could have seen that you are in mourning, and we offer our deepest sympathies. The back of your hand was turned away from my view; however, I have since noticed the lighter patch where your wedding ring had been. Your American accent is plain enough: New York, I believe. I apologize for not having heard of you. Miss Chrane and I are avid musicians as well, but we follow only the flute and violin, respectively. Now, please sit and, pray, tell us your tale _in extenso_." Holmes seated himself beside Emily on the settee, and motioned West to the chair opposite them.  
  
"My problem," he began, "concerns my late wife. She has been deceased two days now. Her name prior to our marriage was Jane Privett, and she had lived in London almost all of her life, yet we met in America."   
  
"How is that?" Holmes asked, leaning back, assuming a judicial pose, and placing his fingertips together.  
  
"Her parents felt that she needed a holiday. She had been through some trying times."   
  
"Of what sort?" Emily inquired.   
  
"Is that important?" he asked, seemingly uneasy.  
  
"Does it have any bearing on your case?" Holmes queried.   
  
"I suppose it does," he replied.   
  
"Then I'm afraid that you must enlighten us. I see," said Holmes, "that you are hesitant to declare it with my friends present. You can say anything to my colleagues that you would disclose to me. They are both detectives and would never break a professional confidence." I was honored by this compliment. That Holmes should call me a detective was an unparalleled homage!  
  
"It is a very long story," West said.   
  
"We have all the time in the world," said Holmes. "Tell us all, for you may think a detail insignificant when the entirety of the case hinges upon it. We shall decide what is irrelevant."   
  
"Very well. Several years ago," our client began, "my late wife was engaged to be married to an Englishman, but she discovered a dark secret of his, his occupation, which made her spring from him and call off the wedding."   
  
"And the man's name is -- ?" Holmes asked.   
  
"Joseph Ringer."  
  
"The mercenary?" Holmes cried as he sat bolt upright. Emily, too, appeared startled. "Now that is a name that is all too familiar to me! This is becoming very interesting. Please go on!"   
  
"A designing woman from his past informed her of that fact," said the American. "The wretch accosted her on the street one day, yelling that she was about to marry a bounty hunter and a hired killer. Up to that time, Jane had believed he was an honorable soldier. Jane was always practical; she was not so blinded by love that she could not see the truth. She had always regarded his excuses concerning his career to be feeble. She naturally confronted him with this information and, naturally, he denied it, but she did not believe him. One day, when she was visiting his house, he left her to conduct some business. While she was waiting, she went through his papers. What she found convinced her without a doubt."   
  
"What exactly did she find?" Emily asked.   
  
"She found some photographs," said he. "Each was a picture of a single person or a group of people with a certain face circled. Some of them had a cross drawn through the face, and she recognized a few of those faces from the newspapers as men who had died mysteriously. She confronted him again with the photographs and, without admitting or denying it, he tried to cajole her into marrying him notwithstanding. She refused him vehemently and stormed out of his home. He followed, threatening her. As she boarded the cab she had sent for, she heard him yell, 'If you are not mine, you will be no one's. I will make certain of that!' "  
  
"The mantra of the insanely jealous," said Holmes. "How often do those words figure into murder cases?"  
  
"Jane never looked back," said West.  
  
"How do you know all these particulars if this transpired before you both met?" I asked.   
  
"Jane proclaimed all to me when we received his dinner invitation," he replied. "But that occurred later. After this trying experience, Jane's parents insisted that she accompany them on their holiday to New York, fearing for her state of mind, not to mention any physical harm that might befall her. They decided to extend their summer holiday into a two-year stay. Being safely in America, she did her best to forget her ordeal and, when we met, we fell quickly in love. At the end of a year, with her parents' delighted approval, we were married and, for the next four and one-half years, we lived in utter bliss. At that time, my contract with the New York Symphony was complete, and I was commissioned by the Old Imperial Orchestra here in London, so she and I returned to England. The next six months we spent adjusting to our new life together in London, and we were not seen much socially until it was almost our anniversary.   
  
"Jane's parents had our impending anniversary announced in the all the society papers. They had never had the chance to celebrate our wedding in the London social circles, so they were anxious to present us to their friends. A few days later, we had an invitation to a dinner party in our honour from Ringer. This is when she related her experience to me. I did not blame her for withholding such information, since we only met because she was trying to forget that it had ever happened. Jane was hesitant, but both her parents and I insisted that she and I go. I assured her that no harm would come to her and that I should protect her! Oh, Lord!" He broke down completely into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. Emily went to him and tried to comfort him, to some avail.  
  
"There, there, Mr. West," said she. "Please try to continue."   
  
He repressed his sobs with difficulty, and resumed his narrative. "It was a lovely party: cocktails, and conversation, and dancing. Ringer was, in fact, a most charming host. Through the course of the evening, I even began to think that perhaps Jane had been wrong about the man."  
  
"How many others were there?" Emily asked.  
  
"Five other couples and Ringer made it thirteen. Do you need the other guests' names?" he asked.  
  
"I don't think that will be necessary at this particular time," Holmes answered. "What happened at dinner?"  
  
"The soup had just been served," said he. "The dining room window was open, for there was a pleasant evening breeze, and the wind blew the candles out."  
  
"The servants relit them, of course?" Holmes asked.  
  
"No, Ringer lit the candelabra nearest himself almost immediately."  
  
"Did he light them before dinner?"  
  
"No, the servants lit them while all the guests were still having cocktails."  
  
"Did you happen to notice if Ringer smoked much that evening?"  
  
"I did notice, Mr. Holmes. Ringer did not smoke himself, nor would he allow the other guests to do so. It was bad for the bird, he said."  
  
"The bird?"  
  
"Yes, he has a pet macaw named -- " he cringed as he said the word " -- Jane."  
  
"So he did not smoke, and did not allow his guests to do so?"  
  
"That is correct."  
  
"And yet he seems to have had matches in his pocket."  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"Because you said he relit the candles almost immediately. In other words, he did not rush across the room to rummage through some drawer or cabinet looking for the matches. Conveniently, he had matches on his person."  
  
"That is suggestive," said Emily.  
  
"I fear that I do not follow you," said West. "Suggestive of what?"  
  
"Only that he anticipated, or in all likelihood planned on, the candles' blowing out."  
  
"To what purpose?"  
  
"We do not have enough data yet," said Holmes, "to come to any valuable conclusion. It is a grave error to form suppositions before one has all the facts. Pray continue with your narrative."  
  
"Before the candles were relit, Ringer's macaw flew across the room to its master. He explained as he lit the candles that the dark frightened his bird. Jane was startled of course, and I refilled her glass of burgundy. I thought a drink might do her some good. A few minutes later, Jane went limp as a rag. She began to turn blue, and was soon dead. The police have analyzed the contents of her food, but they found no evidence of poison."  
  
"Was Ringer arrested?" Holmes asked.  
  
"They did arrest him, Mr. Holmes," said West, "but there are eleven witnesses willing to swear that Ringer did not tamper with her soup in any way."  
  
"Eleven?"  
  
"Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes, I had to concur. Ringer did not move a muscle, except to light the candles. And he was on the other side of the room. He didn't even approach our side of the table to light the second candelabra. He threw matches to me, and I lit the candles myself. Still, I know that he is somehow responsible for my wife's death. They released him this morning, despite my protests."  
  
"Had your wife eaten any of the soup before the candles went out?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Not more than a few spoonfuls," he replied, "but she was engrossed in conversation."  
  
"And after the light was restored?"  
  
"Not much more. Her bowl was still almost half full when she died."  
  
"Well," said Holmes when West had finished speaking, "yours is a most singular tale, but I think we may be able help you. We shall, however, need to make an inspection of the scene. We shall meet you at Ringer's in a quarter of an hour."  
  
"You know where he lives?" West asked. He was surprised: I was not.  
  
"Oh, yes. I know a great deal about Joseph Ringer of Regent Street," said Holmes. Our visitor left, marveling. "Watson," Holmes then directed at me, "I see that you are inquisitive about our antagonist, Mr. Ringer. You may help yourself to my index of biographies."  
  
I retrieved the "Q-R" volume and this is what I found:  
  
  
_Ringer_, _Joseph Charles_. Professional killer, bounty hunter, mercenary.  
Born: Manchester, 1852. Son of Charles Ringer, Manchester gunsmith.  
Educated: University of London. Address: Regent Street. Formerly of  
South America (mostly Brazil, until 1886) and Africa (Sudan, until  
1881). Called "the Black Mamba."  
  
  
Written in the margin was: "Has killed 50 or more men, but police can lay none to his charge."  
  
"He has quite a past, Watson, does he not?" Holmes asked, smiling at my growing alarm over what I had just read. "Apart from his entry, that volume is almost devoid of interest. When he was 23, he went to Sudan to find heavy game, but lions and rhinos were not all that he hunted. In Africa, there were many unexplained deaths surrounding him, which is why he earned that charming epithet. He evaded the local police, and went to South America where he did much the same thing. I believe he only returned to England because no other place would have him. It is fortuitous that he never joined up with James Moriarty; they would have made a formidable pair. I asked West for the quarter-hour for I wanted to satisfy your obvious curiosity. But enough about Ringer! We must now prepare to leave."  
  
"So, Emily," I asked on the way to Ringer's home, "Edinburgh's criminal cases are very slack, eh?" She had once commented that her and Holmes' visits to one another corresponded to a lull in criminal activity in Edinburgh, where she lived, or in London. This visit, however, as I was soon to learn, did not conform.  
  
"No, Edinburgh's load of cases is very dense," she answered.  
  
"Then why are you not there?" I asked.  
  
"I've been sacked, John," she replied, not seeming upset at all.  
  
"Why?" I inquired.  
  
She and Holmes began to laugh without restraint, and they simultaneously exclaimed: "Insubordination!"  
  
"Why is that humorous?" I asked. "That is a very serious charge. Were you insubordinate?"  
  
"Yes, I was," she answered, curbing her laughter to a beaming smile. "I was only dismissed because, when I was insubordinate, my superiors in the department were wrong and I was right. However, it is of no matter to me."  
  
"But Edinburgh needs you!" I protested.  
  
"Yes, John, but she doesn't want me. She has proved it time and time again! Besides, official police work is so tedious: writing reports to one's superiors in triplicate, being able to question witnesses according to certain procedures only, and so forth. It was not for me. I know you tried to tell me that, Sherlock, but I was too obstinate to listen. Perhaps I'll open my own consulting practice presently. Now, however, I can spend more time with Sherlock and have more freedom in solving cases."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
When we arrived at Regent Street, Inspector Lestrade was there, looking pale and haggard. This investigation was evidently taking a toll on him. He was both startled and happy to see us. Holmes stepped forward to introduce Emily as his step-sister, after which she said: "Inspector, you've had that friendly orange cat of yours for a long time, I fancy?"  
  
"By George!" he exclaimed. "She can do it too! I've had him four years. How did you know?"  
  
"There really is no mystery in it: there are several light orange hairs about two inches long on your coat," Emily began. "They most likely belong to a pet. The tickling sensation in my nose tells me that it is a cat, since they always make me sneeze. I know that he is friendly because he rubs all over you, scattering loose sections of his pelt on your clothes. Since you've had the animal for such a time, you no longer bother to remove them."  
  
"How simple! I'm surprised that I did not think of it myself," said he, absentmindedly brushing his coat. "Well, Mr. Holmes, what is your clever brood doing here?"  
  
"We are acting on behalf of Mr. Nathaniel West," Holmes answered.  
  
"Ah, the unfortunate husband."  
  
"He came to see us this morning."  
  
"Well, the dining room is this way," said Lestrade, leading us toward the left side of the house. "Nothing has been removed except the body." As we filed into the room, he said, "We arrested Ringer yesterday, but haven't been able to hold him longer thana day with what we have."  
  
"Which is?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Practically nothing," Lestrade replied. "There will be an autopsy in half an hour. Hopefully that will turn up more evidence. I know he's guilty: I can feel it in my bones."  
  
"Your intuition serves you well, Lestrade," said Holmes. "His guilt is evidenced by the fact that he took so many pains to assure that eleven witnesses saw him do absolutely nothing. May we observe the autopsy?" My friend's request was not unduly shocking to Lestrade, but the woman's husband was appalled.  
  
"It is not pleasant, Mr. West," said Emily after Lestrade had given his permission, "but it is necessary."  
  
At that instant, Joseph Ringer entered the room. He was a short, stocky man, burly and burlesque. He had a wide face, but it was almost completely hidden by his beard and bushy eyebrows. His beady eyes and jagged teeth made him quite the embodiment of evil. His appearance was barbaric and frightening, yet he assumed a very gentlemanly manner in our presence. Judging from his occupation and the title Holmes had given him, I concluded that his demeanor was indeed assumed.  
  
"I hear that you have a pet bird, Mr. Ringer," Emily said to him.  
  
"I do -- a hyacinthine macaw. Would you like to see her?"  
  
"Yes, very much," Emily said.  
  
Ringer left the room and returned shortly with a deep blue bird that had a yellow eye-ring and bill-base. She was a very majestic-looking specimen. It was unlike Emily to go off on such a tangent. I had noticed that she was an animal enthusiast, however, and I thought this might prompt her to ask to see Ringer's feathered companion.  
  
"She's very clever," said Ringer. "One can teach her almost anything. It gave her quite a scare though, when the wind blew the candles out the night of the party. She flew straight to her beloved master."  
  
Emily thanked him as he handed her the bird, which settled peacefully on her shoulder. "You're a beautiful bird, Jane," said Emily.  
  
"Thank you," the bird replied.  
  
Emily placed the avian on her stand in the corner of the room. The room was situated as thus: the table was in the exact middle. It was a long rectangular table of dark and heavy oak wood and it was covered with a light lace tablecloth. The window of which West spoke was the only one, and it was opposite the door. The sideboard below the window was a smaller replica of the table. Holmes began to scrutinize the table with his glass, then he took two samples of soup, one from Mrs. West's bowl and one from that of another guest. He similarly took two samples of the burgundy.  
  
"Well, I think we have seen enough," said Holmes. He and Emily walked out of the house, with West and I following.  
  
"Are you giving up so soon, Mr. Holmes?" West asked.  
  
"On the contrary, Mr. West," said Holmes. "I believe that we have five promising clues, but we cannot test the most important of these until this evening. We shall, therefore, spend the afternoon concentrating our efforts upon the others. Trust in this: we want to catch this fiend as much as, or possibly even more than, you do. Please rejoin us here tonight after seven." When West had left, he turned to me. "Watson, you are the medical man: observe the autopsy carefully."  
  
"Surely Emily is more qualified than I?"  
  
"Self-deprecation does not become you, John," said she. "You are more than qualified. Your medical mind has developed a turn for forensics, if from nothing more than your association with Sherlock. Have a little confidence in yourself. Regardless of how qualified I may be, however, I fear that my recent dismissal would make my presence awkward at best."  
  
"Still, Emily is well versed in chemistry, as I am," Holmes added, "so we shall be at Baker Street conducting our own experiments. Do you have your notebook?" I nodded. "Good! Take exact notes of the examination, recording the police surgeon's thoughts as well as your own. Your conjectures in this area are most valuable. Most importantly, if your conclusions differ from the surgeon's in any way, record both to the letter!"  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
I did just as Holmes instructed during the autopsy, and returned to Regent Street that evening. Holmes and Emily were already there, and motioned me aside to confer.  
  
"What did the police surgeon find?" Holmes asked. "Cause of death?"  
  
"Suffocation," I replied, "caused by respiratory paralysis." Holmes took my notebook and began to read it. "What did you find?"  
  
Holmes looked up from my book momentarily and said, "Curare and gelatin." He began to read again.  
  
"Why did the police not find that?" I asked.  
  
"They did not test her drink carefully enough," Emily answered. "We, however, were looking for anything that Mrs. West may have ingested that the other guests did not."  
  
"Watson, you write exquisitely!" Holmes exclaimed, as he snapped my notebook closed. "It is no wonder that your yarns about my work sell so well. Undoubtedly, this conclusion is correct. It all fits neatly together. Inspector Lestrade!" Holmes called as we moved toward the dining room.  
  
Lestrade joined us presently. "You've found something, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"It won't do, Lestrade," Holmes chided. "You did not have your experts perform a meticulous analysis of Mrs. West's burgundy. You will observe that there are spots of burgundy here on the tablecloth."  
  
"We thought that it had just spilled when her glass was refilled," Lestrade replied.  
  
"No," Holmes stated, "but that is what we were meant to believe."  
  
"They did test the burgundy," Lestrade maintained.  
  
"They didn't test it carefully enough, then. I doubt they were sufficiently objective to run their tests against a control: a sample of the untainted burgundy?"  
  
"Well, no," he answered. "They assumed that any poison would be evident."  
  
"It was no normal poison," Holmes replied.  
  
"What then?"  
  
"Curare," said he. "It is a vegetable alkaloid used by South American natives on blow gun darts. You have read Claude Bernard's work on the subject?" Lestrade shook his head. "That is a pity. Well, you really should -- it may come in handy in your line of work."  
  
"How did it get into the burgundy?" he asked.  
  
"The lady began to fall ill only a few minutes after the lights came up. I propose that the poison was placed into the drink while the lights were out. Mr. West testified that he filled her glass shortly afterward, because she was startled. That is why she did not notice the foreign object in her glass before drinking it."  
  
"But, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade maintained, "no one moved while the lights were out, except Mr. Ringer when he lit the candles and he was at the opposite end of the table. All of the guests testify as to that fact. The moon was full and they could see almost everything."  
  
"The word 'almost' is the clue there, Inspector Lestrade," said Emily. "The bird flew overhead, however. Mr. Ringer has said as much himself."  
  
"Are you suggesting that the bird is the murderer, Miss Chrane?" he asked insolently.  
  
"Not intentionally, but yes," she replied. "Jane was only doing what her master taught her."  
  
"What? That is absurd!" Ringer shouted.  
  
"It was not impossible for you put the substance into the drink yourself," said Emily, "so the only other means of the poison getting into the drink was that the bird dropped it into the glass as she flew overhead." Ringer rolled his eyes mockingly. "Oh, come now, Mr. Ringer," she continued. "You did say she could be taught anything, even murder?"  
  
"This is preposterous!" he clamored.  
  
"Is it now?" Emily queried. "Let us see about that. Mrs. West was sitting here at dinner." She took an empty wineglass and placed it on the table. She then went to the corner where the bird was perched and pulled a coin from her purse. Emily handed the coin to the bird, and Jane took it from her in her beak. "Now, let's extinguish these lights." She and Holmes blew out the candles on the two candlelabras in a concerted motion. After they had done so, the bird flew across the room. There was a clink as the coin hit the glass. The moon had risen and shone brightly through the window so that one could tell that no one had moved save the avian. Holmes lit the candles and the coin was lying in the wineglass. "Excellently done, Jane," Emily commented.  
  
"Thank you," the bird replied.  
  
"The moon provided enough light to show that no person had moved," said Emily, "giving witnesses that Ringer himself had put nothing into the lady's drink. The bird's flying overhead, as she was trained to do when the lights were put out, distracted everyone's attention from the substance falling into Mrs. West's glass."  
  
"Why did he not train the bird to put it into her soup?" Lestrade asked. "The soup bowl would be a much larger target."  
  
"The curare would not dissolve in the soup quite so well," Holmes said. "It is an organic chemical, and it needs an organic medium in which to dissolve, such as the ehtyl alcohol in the burgundy. Also, curare is a dark, tar-like substance. It would not be easily distinguished in a glass of burgundy. However, the bird's aim does not seem to be a problem."  
  
"Why would it not have killed the bird?" he asked.  
  
"I imagine it was encased in a gelatin capsule. We also found traces of gelatin in her drink. Luckily for the bird, she did not mistake it for a grape."  
  
"Her food was always kept in a dish, Mr. Holmes," Ringer volunteered. "I taught her many tricks, picking up little trinkets and such, so she had learned not to eat any object I handed her. And parrots have excellent eyesight."  
  
"Quite so, Mr. Ringer," said Holmes. "Quite so."  
  
"Joseph Ringer," Lestrade said, "I arrest you in the name of her Majesty for the willful murder of Mrs. Jane West."  
  
"Yes, I know the routine, Inspector," said he and turning to my friends, "Miss Chrane, Mr. Holmes -- you are omniscient."  
  
"No, Mr. Ringer," Holmes replied, "not omniscient, only observant."  
  
"He might have gotten away with it, had you not been here," Lestrade said. "Well, Ringer, why did you do it? Come clean, man!"  
  
"Why should I?" he asked. "I seriously doubt that it will lessen my sentence."  
  
"Your fame will certainly spread, Lestrade," said Holmes, "when people come to know what an infamous assassin you've caught."  
  
"He's an assassin?" Lestrade gaped.  
  
"He is," Holmes continued, "and one you've wanted to get your hands on for a long time, I expect." He gave the Inspector a slip of paper. "Here is a list of a few of the men he has killed in this area. I expect you know him better as the 'Black Mamba'. You will probably be able to find corroborating evidence among his papers, if you look. Some suspiciously marked photographs."  
  
"It is a good dishonest profession, Mr. Holmes," Ringer said.  
  
"It matters not to me," Holmes professed, "for which of his atrocities he swings, yet I for one would like to hear his tale."  
  
"Very well," Ringer began. "I killed her. No one spurns Joseph Ringer and gets away with it!" He paused and the hatred on his face turned to a softer look, almost gentleness. " . . . I did love her . . . and she loved me once, you know, but when she learned what I was, she refused me. I started to plot my revenge, but she fled the country. Almost seven years later, I read the announcement of her fifth wedding anniversary in the papers. That was extremely auspicious, for it not only let me know she was back in the country, but it also gave me a pretext on which to invite her to a dinner party. In addition, I made the gathering in the couple's honour to show that there were no hard feelings," he said in a sardonic tone.  
  
"How could you be sure the candles would go out?" I asked when he had finished.  
  
"I could not be sure, Dr. Watson, but it was likely. I strategically placed the furniture in the room so that the candelabras were in the path of wind. I taught Jane, as you have seen, to drop whatever object I gave her in the wineglass at that very spot. If the lady survived the first attempt, she would be more likely to accept a second invitation. And I knew she had a fondness for burgundy. Eventually, I would have gotten her." They began then to lead Ringer away.  
  
West's emotions overcame him. Truth be told, if the woman had been my wife, I do not think that I could have contained myself as long as he had. "Ringer!" he yelled.  
  
"Mr. West?" the murderer of his beloved wife answered coolly.  
  
"I am glad of the fact that you will hang," he pronounced through gritted teeth, "but I wish I could kill you myself!"  
  
Ringer bowed mockingly and was then led away. Afterwards, Holmes, Emily and I returned to Baker Street where replayed that baroque piece for me.  
  
The next day, West called at 221B to thank Holmes and Emily for giving him justice. As far as I know, he never remarried. Ringer was hanged two weeks later after a speedy trial. Upon the occasion of his execution, his final request was that the woman who had sent him to gallows should receive his favorite pet: Emily took possession, quite willingly I might add, of his bird.  
  
  



	5. The Adventure of the Unlikely Suicide

  
  


**The Adventure of the Unlikely Suicide**

  
  
  
I realized, in a cursory glance over my other accounts, that I did neither Mr. Sherlock Holmes nor Miss Emily Chrane justice in my descriptions of them. The depictions were accurate, of course, but done very matter-of-factly. By most standards, Holmes was a dashing man with exquisite manners. He lacked nothing in appearance or stature and was, in my own opinion, very handsome, although his face, haggard by deduction and the trials he subjected himself to in the name of deduction, made him appear years older than his actual age.  
  
Emily, too, was very attractive. Her features were delicate and well placed. Her hair was raven-black with dancing elusive streaks of blue; nevertheless, I did not much care for the manner in which she styled it. I am certain that it was the best possible manner in which a woman could style her hair according to the laws of physics, yet I thought it too severe. Emily was most plain in every manner, but especially in dress, seldom wearing any colour far removed from black, and never adorning herself with embellishments or jewels of any sort. She was a trifle taller and thinner than I cared for in a lady, but she suited Holmes well. Her slimness was the perfect complement to his own slender form. She was shapely, for such a thin woman, and I had I not been married and thought still that she was not, I could have fallen very deeply in love with her.  
  
The year 1899 saw more than a few cases on which the trio of Holmes, Emily and myself worked jointly. In January of that year, I arrived home from my tobacconist's to find a telegram from Emily:  
  
  
Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.  
  
E. G. C.  
  
  
So I left once again for Baker Street immediately, and, upon arriving, found Holmes and Emily engrossed in a game of chess. They were proceeding to put one another in check at regular intervals.  
  
"Watson," Holmes said as I entered, not looking up from the game, "the case began with a letter I received yesterday: you may wish to read it. It is in the usual place." One of Holmes' many unusual habits was to attach his unanswered correspondence to the middle of the hearth with a jackknife. He pointed behind his back with his thumb, as I proceeded to the hearth to retrieve the letter. A golden, jewel-encrusted stiletto replaced the humble jackknife. It was a most extraordinary weapon, and I could not help commenting upon it.  
  
"This knife is amazing!" I cried.  
  
"I imagined it would wrench such an exclamation from you," said he. "It is an antique and belonged to one of the oldest families of Europe. It has a sordid past, however: several of the male heirs of this household, whose name I am not at liberty to disclose, proceeded to employ this weapon in the murder -- sacrifice is a more fitting term -- of their wives after they had borne male offspring. It was something of a macabre family tradition. I have before told you of the grim deeds that can be shielded by a noble family's crest. Over the past few centuries, that very stiletto quietly caused the death of many of the most beautiful and resolute women ever to grace the Continent. I must also say that it very nearly had the honor of piercing my heart. It would have done so, had Emily not been standing by with her derringer. With the kind and grateful permission of the surviving matriarch, I retained possession of it. Should we outlive the family's lineage, publication of the account may be possible."  
  
"You were almost killed?" I gasped.  
  
"Being almost killed, Watson," said he calmly, "is an inevitable facet of the detective's profession. Preventing the 'almost' from disappearing from that phrase presents the only difficulty in the situation. I agree with the Lorenzinis in that fearing death is no way to live a life. This letter you are about to read came by the afternoon post." In attempting to remove the letter, I nearly dropped all of the others into the roaring fire. "Careful, Watson," said Holmes without turning. Emily looked up and grinned at me. I thought that the chess game would continue in its present stalemate, affording me time to read the entirety of the letter unhurriedly. Alas, not so.  
  
"Check and mate!" Emily cried, standing. Holmes simply stared at the board in disbelief.  
  
"That was a bold move! You've been practicing," he growled as she rubbed her hands in felicity.  
  
"I had the opportunity to study with one of the best master's in Scotland," she stated.  
  
"Well, Watson," said Holmes, leaning back in his chair, "what do you make of it?"  
  
"I am not sure," said I. I had read only enough to obtain the basic gist of the note: a woman named Sandra Purcell was to call in a quarter of an hour to consult Holmes upon the matter of the death of her sister Elizabeth. "I've read something of this in the papers, Holmes. They call Elizabeth Purcell's death a suicide."  
  
"Never trust the papers, John," said Emily coolly. "They arrive at their theories with the help of Scotland Yard and, as we all know, in the more complex cases, the Yard is usually wrong."  
  
"She is a cautious woman," said I, when I had read the letter fully.  
  
"What makes you say that, Watson?"  
  
"You've often said it is the usual practice of women who live in the vicinity to simply call and not notify in advance." Holmes nodded. "She lives close, yet she wrote anyhow to make certain you knew of her impending visit, so that you would be sure to be here. This is a very cautious action."  
  
"That is a marvelous deduction, Watson! I had not even thought of that, but you do seem to dwell on human nature more than I. Miss Purcell obviously believes that her sister was incapable of suicide, which is the usual case, and she wants us to prove the police wrong. Here she is now." There were footsteps outside the door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and there was, looming behind her, a short, plump woman. Miss Purcell had a pallid, sorrowful face and her eyes, though somewhat hidden behind thick spectacles, darted nervously about the room. Holmes leapt to the door and ushered her inside. "Miss Sandra Purcell?" he asked, taking her by the elbow and helping her into a chair. She concurred and he added, after introducing Emily and myself, "You are a seamstress in a factory, are you not?"  
  
"How did you know that?" she gaped.  
  
"I observed a pin-cushion strapped to your left wrist. The fact that it was not removed when you left your sewing to call on us shows that you were in a rush. If you owned your own shop, you could come and go at will. If you worked for another seamstress, she would most likely have let you have all the time you needed. A supervisor in a sewing factory, however, would not care one whit about your sister's death. His only concern would be that you were not doing your share of daily work, so it is doubtful you would get leave for more than an hour to come here. That was the purpose of the letter you sent -- to make absolutely certain that you would not miss us. As your time is undoubtedly brief, so how we may serve you?"  
  
"My sister Elizabeth has died."  
"Yes, you told us that in your letter, but you do not think it was a suicide?"  
  
"I did not mention the nature of her death in the note. How did you know it?"  
  
"The newspapers," Holmes returned, with a glance in my direction, "said it was a suicide. You do not believe that, or you would not be here asking my assistance. You and your sister, I assume, were close?"  
  
"Very. Close enough that I know she would not -- could not -- take her own life."  
  
"Of course not," said Holmes, patting her arm sympathetically. "How did your sister make her living?"  
  
"She was an artist."  
  
"Was her career ebbing?" Emily inquired.  
  
"On the contrary, Miss Chrane, it was just picking up. She was beginning to become something of a big name in the world of art. Her paintings were selling well, and she had just taken a villa in Kent with some of her profits."  
  
"Was she the kind who could not handle the pressures of success?" I asked.  
  
"Excellent question, Watson!" Holmes interrupted.  
  
"If she felt pressured," Miss Purcell answered, "she did not show it, Doctor. She seemed to everyone to be having a wonderful time."  
  
"She seemed to have no problems? Nothing was plaguing her?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Nothing at all," Miss Purcell replied.  
  
"Pray, tell us about the circumstances leading up to her death," said he.  
  
"Two nights ago, I had just finished my work at the factory, and I was on my way to her house. She had sent word earlier requesting my presence."  
  
"What was it concerning?" Emily asked.  
  
Miss Purcell hesitated. "A . . . problem . . . she had been having."  
  
"What sort of problem?" Holmes queried.  
  
"Must I really explain it? It is terribly embarrassing for me."  
  
"We are trying to help you, Miss Purcell. You can trust us implicitly: we will not divulge you secrets. _Sub rosa_, if you wish it. An explanation on this point may give us a clue as to your sister's death." The woman had been quite on edge, yet Holmes' chivalrous manner effortlessly put her at ease. He had an undeniable talent for calming women, almost as remarkable as his talent for upsetting them.  
  
"She was involved with a man," Miss Purcell replied.  
  
"And this man's intentions were not honorable?" Holmes asked.  
  
"They were not, for he was already married: she was his mistress."  
  
"And what prompted her to request you presence?" Emily inquired. "What had gone awry in their relations?"  
  
"He told her that the novelty had worn off it."  
  
"And your sister was saddened by this and sought your comfort?" Holmes queried.  
  
"No, Mr. Holmes, she was envenomed and wanted me to aid her in plotting an act of malevolence."  
  
"Ah, a vengeful spirit! However, might her anger," he persisted, "have turned itself into grief?"  
  
Elizabeth knew well how to separate her emotions, even when we were young children. There was no sadness in her about this matter; she was about to end the affair herself. I believe she was merely jealous because he had done it first. Her anger would neither yield to nor become dejection."  
  
"Very well," Holmes answered, with a chuckle. He appeared amazed by the woman's description of her spirited sister. "What did you plan?"  
  
"She did not really need my help. By the time I had reached her home, she had contrived everything."  
  
"Did she discuss her intent?" Emily inquired.  
  
"She did not, though I am not certain that I would have wanted to know. It was, however, most likely only a prank. She said only that she would have a bit of her own back. When I left her, she was in devilishly high spirits, and, by morning, she was dead."  
  
"What time did you leave her?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Half past eight."  
  
"And what was the estimated time of death?" he queried.  
  
"The police reckoned a quarter of twelve."  
  
"Has a thorough autopsy been performed yet?" Emily inquired.  
  
"No, Miss Chrane, but one is scheduled for this afternoon, at my insistence."  
  
Holmes noted both times on his shirt cuff as Emily posed her question, then stood and began to pace, hands thrust deeply in his pockets.  
  
"You are most assuredly correct, Miss Purcell -- it does not make sense. If your sister did indeed take her own life, what could have happened in a mere three and one quarter hours to depress her to the point of suicide?" He asked this last question as if of the air, so none of us attempted an answer. "Why, exactly," Holmes asked, extending his arms, "do the police think that it was suicide?"  
  
"Because, Mr. Holmes," the woman answered, "my sister was found hanging by her neck from a rope."  
  
"That does seem most final," Holmes replied with a morose nod. Emily, I noticed, looked puzzled. "How did your sister notify you that she wanted to see you?" Holmes queried.  
  
"I had a note from her that was delivered to me at the factory. As soon as I'd finished my work for the day, I made for her house directly."  
  
"Well," Holmes said, after a moment's contemplation, "I believe that we should do the same. Miss Purcell, you must undoubtedly return to the factory, but I should be surprised if we do not have some good news for you after your workday has ended."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
The late Miss Purcell's home, a large airy villa in Kent, was situated behind a succession of large trees that might have been lovely in the spring, but were at the present time bare of leaves. They resembled skeletons reaching for the sky. The house, by contrast, was quite lovely.  
  
"Holmes, this house puzzles me," said I.  
  
"Why is that?" he asked.  
  
"This," I replied, "is a beautiful, expensive home. Notice the skillful architecture."  
  
"Franz, I believe," Emily interjected.  
  
"And the expensive building materials," I continued. "The late Miss Purcell was apparently quite well-to-do . . ."  
  
"I see what you're getting at, old man," said he. "You wonder why the one sister has an elegant, costly home, while the other makes a meager living as a seamstress in a factory. Well, Watson, if Elizabeth Purcell were indeed the vengeful spirit that her sister describes, if would not be too far a leap to also characterize her as exceedingly selfish. In my experience, the two traits often accompany one another. So I imagine that she was too self-centered to entertain thoughts of helping to provide a better life for her less fortunate sister. And Sandra Purcell, as we have all noticed, is too full of the 'milk of human kindness' to think ill of her sister."  
  
The inspector in charge, we discovered as we entered the studio of the late Miss Purcell's home, was a man by the name of Bartholomew Jenkins, just promoted from detective sergeant. He had light red hair and a darker red beard, with many freckles scattered about on his pallid skin. I myself am not one who is inclined to stereotypes, yet the saying about red-headed temperaments, in his case, proved to be true. He was quite the odd-looking man, with a massive head too large for his frail wispy body, and a neck that was little more than bulge of flesh protruding over his collar. He addressed us in a deep, but hollow, voice.  
  
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and Miss Chrane, I believe? I have been warned about the three of you." Holmes and Emily smiled at this, which only seemed to perturb the poor fellow more. "What, if I may be so bold, are you doing at my crime scene?"  
  
"We are acting on the part of Miss Sandra Purcell," Holmes replied distractedly, as he and Emily eyed the room and its contents carefully, "the deceased's sister. She believes that there is more to this affair than meets the police's eyes."  
  
"On what does she base this assumption?"  
  
"On her knowledge of her sister's character, of course, and her state of mind a few hours preceding the murder."  
  
"Murder?" said he, with more than a little skepticism.  
  
"Murder," Holmes said flatly. "Since she has requested an autopsy, as the victim's nearest relative, I, as her agent in this matter, would like my friend, Dr. Watson -- who is a fully qualified surgeon -- to be allowed to assist."  
  
"Very well, then," said Jenkins.  
  
"Before we go, however," Holmes added, "apart from the body, has anything been moved?"  
  
"No, Mr. Holmes. The room is just as we found it, except for the body. We took Miss Purcell to the morgue, but you can see the rope hanging from that beam. That's where she hung herself."  
  
"That remains to be seen," Holmes countered, and having police approval, we set off to the morgue to observe the examination of the body. After we arrived, a few snips of "red tape" ensued, but soon the examination was underway. Holmes and Emily watched carefully, and Emily took notes. The cause of death, as the coroner concluded, was a broken neck. I disagreed, for her larynx was pulverized, indicating strangulation. I also had it officially included as a matter of police record that she had skin tissue and blood under her fingernails, which indicated a struggle.  
  
We returned to the artist's home to find the surviving Miss Purcell present. She was almost as anxious to hear the results of the autopsy as we were to relate them. "The skin under her nails," I began, "isn't quite enough in itself to rule out suicide, but coupled with the fact that her larynx was crushed, it is." Jenkins looked incredulously at me, but Holmes continued the explanation notwithstanding.  
  
"The murderer hung her from the beam," said Holmes, "to make it look like a suicide, but the hanging was most likely _post_-_mortem_. He then tidied the room, clearing away all signs of the previous struggle. The only thing he left untidy was the overturned table, to again make it appear that Miss Purcell had kicked it out from under herself, or stepped off the edge and knock it over as she swung from her gallows."  
  
"It was a good thing that you chanced to look at her hands, Doctor," Miss Purcell chimed.  
  
"It wasn't chance," I replied. "It is standard procedure. A person's hands can reveal many things about them."  
  
"What else could you see?" the Inspector asked, doubtfully.  
  
"I could infer," I continued, "that Miss Purcell was a nervous woman, left-handed, and had very likely been painting the night she died."  
  
"And how, pray, did you determine all that?" he asked.  
  
"Her left hand was more muscularly developed, and had more paint on it, light blue in color. In fact, she only had paint on the thumb of her right hand, where she grasped the pallet. Also, she bit her nails, which shows that she was nervous."  
  
"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes was obviously bursting with pride. Holmes and Emily were not close enough to the body to have observed these details, or I am certain they would have come to the same, or perhaps even more, conclusions. Although they were unessential to the case, I was proud of myself for having made note of them.  
  
"Still," Jenkins said, "you cannot imply that Miss Purcell was murdered simply because she had a row with someone."  
  
"Well, when coupled with the fact that she was not tall enough to secure the rope to the beam, it becomes conclusive." Emily sat the table upright, and climbed atop it, where she was under the beam from which the rope still hung. "How tall did the coroner measure the body to be, John?"  
  
I pulled out my notebook, in which Emily transcribed the particulars of the autopsy. "Five feet, seven and one quarter inches," said I.  
  
"Well," Emily continued, "I am five feet, nine inches, and I cannot reach the beam, much less tie off a rope." She extended her arms overhead and, even on the tips of her toes, her fingers were still a foot from the beam.  
  
"She could have thrown the rope over and tied the knot," Jenkins said.  
  
"I would be inclined to agree if there were long ends of rope on either side of the knot. The tail of this knot is short . . . " Her voice trailed off because she seemed to be concentrating on something she could see better than we from her lofty vantage point. "Sherlock, would you be so good as to bring me a chair and your glass?" Holmes retrieved a chair from the other side of the room. He brought it to the table, and before placing it on the tabletop, ran his fingers over some scuffs in the varnish.  
  
"These scratches indicate that a chair has perched on this table before," said Holmes.  
  
Emily climbed up on the chair, and then began to inspect the beam with Holmes' magnifying glass. "This beam, Inspector, also appears to have blood on it, as does the rope."  
  
"Let me see that!" he cried. Emily climbed down to give him access. When he had confirmed that it was indeed blood, he immediately dismissed it. "She got the blood up there herself when she tied the rope."  
  
"She did not have blood on her hands," I protested, "only under the nails."  
  
"She could have gotten a little of it on there. Perhaps it was all wiped off onto the rope. She stood on the chair, tied the rope to the beam, then got off the chair and kicked the table out from under herself."  
  
"Then the table was overturned, and the chair landed upright -- seven feet away?" Holmes added.  
  
"No, I suppose not." Jenkins replied.  
  
"So, who put the chair back?" Emily asked.  
  
"The murderer," Jenkins replied, nodding.  
  
"Precisely!" said Emily. "Now we just have to determine who that might be."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Unfortunately, after Jenkins became convinced that a murder had indeed taken place, he began to savagely interrogate Sandra Purcell. Not that he thought she was the murderer, but just to ascertain information about possible suspects. He did so in a callused, unsympathetic manner, considering that the poor woman had just lost her only sister. Had he been a physician, I should have said he had a deplorable bedside manner. As it was, I can only call it severely lacking in sensitivity. Miss Purcell became hysterical during Jenkin's browbeating, and Holmes demanded that we be allowed to take the woman home. Jenkins complied gracefully, almost guiltily, and we departed for her home in Camden Town. We stayed a while to comfort her. I made her tea and, after she had regained her composure, we tried to speak to her.  
  
"I hate to have to ask you this again, Miss Purcell," said Holmes, "but how close were you and your sister? Forgive my repetition, but it seems that you are our only link as to motives and suspects, and -- like a drowning man -- we must grasp at whatever we can."  
  
"I understand completely, Mr. Holmes," said she daubing her eyes with her handkerchief, "and there is no need to apologize. Elizabeth and I were exceptionally close: she told me everything that happened in her life. We were more than sisters -- we were the best of friends."  
  
"Can you then shed some light on who might have wanted her dead?" I said, sitting beside her, placing a sympathetic hand on her back. "Did she have any enemies?"  
  
"No, she did not, but she had no friends, either, apart from me. She kept to herself much too much. The only reason she and I were friends is because, as her older sister, she had known me all of her life."  
  
"Tell us about the man with whom she was involved," Holmes requested. "His name, address and profession?"  
  
"Harris Stuart, No. 55 Chelsea Street. He is a rich man, I believe: independently wealthy."  
  
"And you say that he ended the affair, and this annoyed your sister?" Emily asked.  
  
"Yes. Elizabeth could be quite petty at times," she replied.  
  
"Well, I think that is all the information we shall need tonight," said Holmes. "We shall see you at your sister's villa tomorrow." Holmes and Emily rose, and I followed suit.  
  
"The best thing for you to do now, Miss Purcell," said I, "is to try to put the whole thing out of your mind for the time being, and to get some rest."  
  
"I have not slept a wink since the whole affair began," she answered.  
  
"Do try," said I. "Doctor's orders." Donning my hat, I followed Holmes and Emily out the door.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
We returned to Baker Street shortly thereafter, and not much was said for the rest of the evening. We dined in silence, or I should say, I dined in silence, for neither Holmes nor Emily touched a bite that lay before them. They merely sat in quiet contemplation of the events of the day. It did not concern me that they did not talk about the case with me, for I was only the untrained observer. I was troubled, however, by the fact that they did not discuss it among themselves. Yet, as they have often said, their thoughts run along the same lines, so their separate hypothesis would probably be strikingly similar. Or perhaps, I thought, they had it solved already.  
  
When we arrived at the scene the next day, there was quite a little activity, more than would normally be expected from the second day of a routine "suicide" investigation. As we entered, Holmes greeted Sandra Purcell and then asked for the inspector.  
  
"What's all this, then, Jenkins?" he inquired.  
  
"It seems, Mr. Holmes," said he, "that there was a break-in during the night."  
  
"With what purpose?" I asked.  
  
"It was most likely just someone wanting to see the scene of the crime," Jenkins replied. "Such an occurrence is more common that we like to let the public know. Nothing appears to be missing."  
  
Emily, I noticed, had walked to one side of the room, examining some paintings. She turned to Holmes, and made a very slight nod.  
  
"Quite right, Inspector! Well, since we put you on the right track yesterday, we shall get out from underfoot. There is nothing more we can do here save getting in your way. Miss Purcell, would you mind accompanying us?"  
  
I was a bit taken aback at Holmes concluding our investigation so abruptly. I looked at him pleadingly for an explanation. With his face turned away from Inspector Jenkins, he mouthed quite clearly, "Outside."  
  
"What is going on, Holmes?" I asked when we were out of earshot.  
  
"I think that it's time that we visit Mr. Harris Stuart of no. 55 Chelsea Street," said he, boarding our four-wheeler.  
  
"What on earth for?" I asked.  
  
"To ascertain whether or not he has the missing painting," Emily answered. "If so, he is most assuredly our murderer."  
  
"What missing painting?" I was confounded, as usual.  
  
"The painting was of a landscape," she stated. "The sky was what she was working on the night she died -- remember the blue paint on her hands? It was barely dry, still tacky, but it was in a frame, nevertheless. And it was not there in the villa today."  
  
"Marvelous!" Miss Purcell chimed.  
  
"Holmes," said I, "what do you mean keeping the information about the painting and Stuart from the police. This won't go down well, you know, hiding evidence."  
  
"I will disclose all to the police in the fullness of time," he replied. "Besides, I am not hiding anything that they could not have discovered on their own, were they so inclined."  
  
"I suppose your right," I replied. "I do believe they will survive it." Holmes grinned.  
  
"Miss Purcell," interrupted Emily, "what do you know of Harris Stuart's character?"  
  
"Only what my sister has told me," said she. "My impressions of him, from Elizabeth's descriptions, were that they were very much two peas in a pod."  
  
"So, I would imagine that he is a vengeful spirit also?" Holmes asked.  
  
"It would seem so," said our client. "According to Elizabeth, they appeared to be perfectly suited. Possibly even soul-mates."  
  
"If what you say it true," I asked, "why were they both determined to end the affair?"  
  
"I believe it is possible, Doctor, for two people to be too much alike."  
  
"Is it possible," Holmes inquired, "that he was vengeful enough to murder her if threatened with blackmail or a scandal?"  
  
"I do not know, Mr. Holmes," Miss Purcell said. "All I know of him is second hand. I really could not speculate."  
  
"Ah, forgive me," said Holmes. "I was wondering aloud, not asking you to conjecture on the matter."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
When we arrived shortly thereafter at our destination, the butler informed that Mr. Stuart was not at home at the moment, but he said he would inform Mrs. Stuart of our presence. As we were shown into the drawing room, Emily pointed out the painting, which was displayed imprudently on the wall.  
  
"Who better to know the man's character than his wife?" said Holmes. Mrs. Stuart, an elegantly dressed, quite handsome woman, joined us shortly. We explained the situation candidly. Oddly enough, the accusation that her husband might be a murderer did not seem to surprise Mrs. Stuart in the least.  
  
"Do you believe that he is capable of murdering his former lover?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Quite frankly, Mr. Holmes, I do," she calmly replied. "My husband, you see, is a deplorable man. He has no respect for anyone or anything. Nothing is sacred to him, save that of his blessed reputation: he would go to uncanny lengths to protect his social standing. I see that you marvel at my lack of surprise at learning of his mistress, as well. None of them astonished me."  
  
" 'Them'?" asked Holmes.  
  
"Harris has had many lovers over the years, but most of them were well kept, and quite discreet. I was grateful for his affairs. They kept him away, and left much less time in which to torment me."  
  
"I do not mean to pry," I interjected, "but why did you marry such a man?"  
  
"He was a charmer, Dr. Watson, and I a wealthy young woman. I did not know his true nature when we married. He needed a wife to meet social expectations, the richer the better, so he used me for his own purposes as he used any other person who could meet some need of his. I will help you in any way I can, you will undoubtedly be shocked to learn, because I would not at all be upset at seeing my husband hang."  
  
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Stuart. I have never known the wife of the accused to be such a beneficial ally!" said Holmes. "And when do you expect your husband to return?"  
  
"In less than two hours," said she.  
  
"Then we shall return in one hour," my friend replied, "with the police."  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Upon returning to the late Miss Purcell's home, we enlightened Inspector Jenkins, who was more than happy to accompany us the Chelsea Street. We were waiting in the drawing room when Mr. Harris Stuart returned. He was strikingly handsome, a suave-looking man with charcoal hair, Celtic features, and black, cold, unfeeling eyes, not unlike those of a shark. He was of a solid, muscular build and was, I would estimate, almost six feet in height. He wore a burgundy smoking jacket and a black neckerchief. The kerchief itself was quite the fashion, but his was worn unusually high about the neck. I surmised that this was to conceal the fresh scratch wounds. When Inspector Jenkins announced that he was under arrest for the murder of Elizabeth Purcell, his shark-eyes filled with rage.  
  
"What are you talking about?" he protested. Jenkins repeated the charged, to which he replied, "This is preposterous! I've never met the woman."  
  
"Deception is not an option, I'm afraid," said Holmes. "Miss Sandra Purcell has told us of your involvement with the deceased."  
  
"Then it's her word against mine," he maintained. "I tell you I know no one by that name."  
  
"You had better own it, Harris," his wife said. "I've already told them all about you. You are only making yourself look foolish."  
  
"You murdered Miss Purcell two nights ago at her villa in Kent," said Jenkins.  
  
"I was home all evening," said he. He looked to his wife for corroboration.  
  
"I will not be your _alibi_," said Mrs. Stuart. "You left home at ten o'clock, after you thought I had gone to sleep."  
  
"You are lying!" he yelled, and drew back his hand to strike his wife across the face.  
  
Holmes caught the man's fist in midair, and wrestled him to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back. "We'll have no more of this," he cried as Jenkins produced handcuffs, and clamped them on Stuart's wrists. Once he was secured, Holmes picked him up by the restraints, causing him more than a little unnecessary discomfort. "One thing I cannot abide is a man who would strike his wife!" Holmes snapped as he threw the man down on the sofa. Stuart glared at us all, but especially at his wife. Holmes alit on another sofa opposite him, and lit a cigarette.  
  
"What gave me away?" Stuart growled.  
  
"She was not tall enough to tie the rope without the aid of a chair," said Holmes, "which you inadvertently replaced in your haste to tidy the room before your departure."  
  
"Also, she had skin under her fingernails," said I, removing his neckerchief, "corresponding to these wounds on your neck."  
  
"Now," said Holmes, "what did she have on you that she was evidently hiding in that painting?"  
  
"How did you know she was hiding something in the painting?" Miss Purcell asked.  
  
"Because it was framed before it dried," said he. "Why was she in such a rush to frame a painting that the she would not allow it enough time to dry? She had to hide something before someone arrived."  
  
"Why not hide it in one of the other paintings?" I asked.  
  
"The other paintings were already sold," said Emily, "so they would not do. She needed to hide it in a painting that she could keep. Now, what was in it, Mr. Stuart?"  
  
"I had reason to believe it contained photographs of myself with Miss Purcell," said he. "I had forgotten that they were ever taken, but she reminded me of that fact when I ended the affair, and told me I would have to pay to reclaim them. I had gone there that night, in fact, to make the transaction, but she demanded twice the price we previously agreed upon."  
  
"How much was she asking?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"A thousand pounds," Stuart replied. Holmes whistled. "She claimed that she had hidden the photographs well, and that I would not find them. I lost my temper, and we fought. I strangled her, while she dealt with me thus." He pointed to the scratches on his neck. "I strung her up to make it look as if she had taken her own life, then I turned my attentions toward the photographs. I searched high and low for them, but could find nothing. It was not until the next morning that I discovered the paint on my shirt collar, and I realized that something painted blue must conceal the photographs. I resolved to return the next night, to seek out what it was. I found that the landscape painting was not completely dry, so I took it, and made away as quickly as possible. I assumed the site of a suicide would not be heavily guarded, and, to my relief, it was not."  
  
"Why not simply destroy the frame, and make off with the contents?" I asked.  
  
"That would call more attention to the painting, Watson," said Holmes. "Remember the Six Napoleons? That was the last thing he wanted to do."  
  
"I could not be sure that the painting contained the photographs," said Stuart, "but I deemed it safer to wait until the mess had blown over to investigate the contents. After all, Elizabeth Purcell would not be blackmailing anyone soon, and with the police thinking it was a suicide, they would not be looking for a suspect, so any photographs I missed were not likely to become evidence against me."  
  
"Well, now it looks as though you will swing," said Jenkins, "for what was only an attempt to prevent a scandal. I cannot see how, in your mind, a human life was worth less than your social standing."  
  
"She was nothing in this world," he answered as Jenkins began to lead him out.  
  
"Perhaps to you," replied Sandra Purcell, "but to some, she was everything!"  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Stuart's trial was quick, and Miss Purcell was grateful the matter was concluded. Also grateful was Mrs. Stuart. She called on us the week following the execution, dressed tastefully, although I am certain not genuinely, in mourning. Her heartfelt thanks shone through the disguise of a grieving widow, and her beaming smile radiated catharsis.  
  
"Harris was and abominable man," said she. "To him, people were nothing more than livestock, a potential gain, though I knew his treachery would catch up to him one day. Thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, I have been emancipated from the prison that was my marriage not only with my sanity, but with also most of my wealth still intact. I am like Harris in one respect: I am concerned with my reputation, hence my appearance of mourning, while at heart I am rejoicing. Good things, as it were, do come to those who wait, or at least to those who endure."  
  
  



End file.
